As the Falcon Hath Her Bells: On the Wing
by HyacinthMacaw
Summary: Sequel to AtFHHB: Taking Flight Love, war, loss, and devious familiars. Three years later, Hermione's back at Hogwarts, and she and Severus resume their most dangerous game. The war has grown fiercer and the stakes much higher. SSHG. Book 2 of 2
1. Chapter One

Hermione sat on her bed in her room in Baker Street, eyeing its quaint Victorian décor, and feeling a little odd that it was decorated in blue. Her seven years at Hogwarts had been in tones of red for living space, naturally, and her room at Lothlorien had been decorated in silvers and white. Still, she shrugged and finished unpacking, sipping a cup of tea she had requested from Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen and sitting on the bed, inviting Crookshanks to sit down on her lap. She picked up the massive volume concerning Sherlock Holmes' adventures and began to read. 

Not the tome she had read as a girl in the Muggle world, though. Naturally, Watson had been required to heavily edit the _real_ story so that the Muggle Sir Arthur Conan Doyle could publish the stories for eager Muggle audiences. The magical version was twice as exciting and vivid. She had been amazed at how much Muggles missed out on. Many of Watson's triumphs and invaluable aid to Holmes had been magical, for instance, and as such had been excised, making the mediwizard seem rather bumbling. So many of the tales that Watson had claimed to not be able to reveal were here: she was quite amused by the tale of the Giant Rat of Sumatra. 

Crookshanks meowed, _So what did he have to say?_ As soon as she had settled in, Holmes had sent for her for a "chat" in his office. It had turned out that Snape had sent him a message recounting her previous experiences with the practical side of fighting the Dark Arts. Those keen grey eyes had turned on her as Holmes had said in his upper-class drawl, "So, Miss Granger, you have experience already. Peregrine falcon, is it? I assume you have not had opportunity to exercise your abilities during your stay at Lothlorien. Degree in Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts, mm?" She had felt like Ravenclaw's most famous alumnus could see right through her with that brilliant mind, and that wasn't a particularly comfortable position, especially since his expression gave away nothing of what he was driving at. 

She left, a bit uncertain of what Holmes was trying to get at. Did he merely want to acknowledge his knowing of her spying, or to warn her to not think to break the rules at Baker Street? She didn't think Snape would have written his old Potions Master to rat her out, so she hoped it was merely the former. 

There was a knock on the door, and she hastily put the book aside and shouted for whomever it was to come in. An elderly woman in green and gold robes sauntered in, and studied Hermione. "You're Miss Granger?" she spoke, and her accent was clearly the twang of an American. "Oh dear…has Sherlock gone off and scared the living daylights out of you?" she sighed. "I tell him that he's a hundred and forty-six--plenty of time to have developed some people skills!" She sounded so rueful that Hermione couldn't help but laugh. 

"Mrs. Holmes, I presume." Known to the Muggle world at large as the notorious Irene Adler, the only woman to ever outwit Sherlock Holmes. The magical version of "A Scandal in Bohemia" had actually been titled, "A Superior Woman", and concerned the years after Irene's flight from England as well as the initial tale of Holmes and Irene crossing foils. Apparently Godfrey Norton, the Muggle barrister, was merely a friend who had thought it a jolly good lark to pull the wool over the King of Bohemia's eyes, and if tricking Sherlock Holmes was in the deal, all the more fun. The two had sailed for America, faking their deaths so that the King wouldn't seek Irene out further, thus prompting Watson in the Muggle version to refer to her as the "late" Irene Adler. 

In New York, they had parted ways, Irene to the wizarding world, Godfrey to Muggle Boston, annulling their marriage. He had acquired a license for the American bar and lived out his days happily in America, his daughter being magical and attending the Salem Institute of Magics, where Irene had spent her days of magical training. 

When Holmes had retreated to the wizarding world to hide from Moriarty's thugs following the Dark wizard's death, he had not followed the path through Tibet and the like that Watson recounted in "The Empty House". Instead he had gone to wizarding America, and had by chance encountered Irene in Minneapolis in 1893. 

Watson wrote of being called to witness their wedding in Chicago later that year, prompting of course a complete rewrite of feigning surprise at Holmes' reappearance in Muggle London in 1894. Still, a hundred and seven years of marriage later, Sherlock and Irene Holmes were still blissfully happy. 

Irene Holmes smiled at her and acknowledged the correct identification, adding wryly, "Though please don't follow that with 'I perceive you have been in Paris of late' or something of the like. Sherlock's altogether too fond of those little games still." 

Hermione laughed again, looking forward to Charms lessons, since she taught them. Headmaster Holmes taught Potions, naturally. "No, he didn't frighten me, though I was wondering a bit why he did such a thing…" 

"Tacit approval, most likely. He'll also probably want to have you develop your abilities further--an Animagus and spy is invaluable, and though Severus," she spoke of him fondly as though he was still the boy she had taught twenty-five years earlier in Charms, "has taught you well, there's always more to learn." 

"Thank you, ma'am," she said. "I'd appreciate it…" 

The Deputy Headmistress handed her a chit of paper. "Your schedule…naturally, classes are small, anywhere from six to ten, so that you can receive direct attention. These are dark times, Miss Granger; you know that, and young Aurors need all the help and guidance they can get." 

Hermione nodded and looked down at the schedule. This term, she had classes in Potions, Charms and Hexes, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Mediwizardry, and Illusions. _A full schedule,_ she thought. _But they seem to think me up to it._ With that, she reached in her trunk and fished out the textbook for Illusions that she had bought at Flourish and Blotts, eagerly beginning to read on the new subject. Classes started tomorrow, after all. 

~~~~~~~~~~

  
Irene went into Holmes' office, eyeing her husband sitting calmly over a stack of resumes for a new teacher for Defense Against the Dark Arts following that year--Professor Quentin Stanhope was retiring. 

"Really, Sherlock," she reprimanded. "I think you frightened her half to death." 

"Ha!" he barked, looking up with a gleam of merriment in his clear grey eyes. "Not if she's a Gryffindor and worth half what young Severus says." 

"He seems quite fond of her," she replied, reaching for the letter his falcon Tosca had delivered two days ago. She was quite amused by the big white gyrfalcon, being a former opera singer herself. She quickly reread the letter, pausing at one particular line. 

_Watch after her,_ Snape requested. _She's skilled, but you know how reckless Gryffindors can be, and it'd be a shame to lose her._ From anyone else, it would be an innocuous statement. From a man both she and Sherlock regretted not saving from the darkness years before, it was practically shouting out to be noticed. 

"He cares for her, I think," she said carefully. 

"Mm," he agreed, handing her a resume. "Be good for him, if you ask me. Not good for a fellow to be alone." 

Irene hid a smile at that, remembering how hard a time it had been to get him to admit to that. He had buried his feelings for years, tried to seem cold and hard, afraid that any emotion would dull his great intellect and skill. It had taken her awhile after they met in America to get him to admit to feeling anything but professional admiration for her triumph over him. They had gone to the World's Fair in Chicago, she remembered, and whether it was the giddy and carefree atmosphere or just surrender after almost forty years of denying a part of himself, he had suddenly kissed her. As though a dam had burst and he realized that loving her wouldn't be the death of him, he didn't really bother to hide himself from her after, and they were married a month later. 

_Think about the girl,_ she sharply commanded herself. _That was long ago--there's the here and now to think of._ Now was perhaps not the best time for a romance between Hermione and Severus: times being that they were. Even the normal wizarding folk didn't know if they'd live to see another day, and high-risk personalities like herself, Sherlock, Dumbledore, and the Aurors and spies, had the risk of death multiplied exponentially. 

She sighed to remember November of 1981, when the magical world was rejoicing over Voldemort's defeat. But Sherlock had merely looked at her, wearily shaking his head and looking for a moment every one of his hundred and thirty-seven years. "He's out there, Rene…I knew Moriarty was gone; Rasputin and Grindelwald too. I don't feel it now." They had begun the Academy next fall in preparation, and his prediction had come true fourteen years later. 

She put Snape's letter back down on the desk as he reached idly for the Persian slipper containing his tobacco, lighting his briarroot pipe. "Well, we'll look after her," he finally said. "What Snape does about her once we've got her trained and ready for the war is his own business." He allowed himself a slight smile. "Though when this ends, if he's still trying to deny it, I might slip him some Veritaserum. What do you say?" She smiled a little at his optimism, but inside she knew he was as troubled as she was. _If we all survive,_ she thought wearily. 

~~~~~~~~~~
    
    A quick A/N here to all Sherlock Holmes/Mary Russell fans...
    
    I appreciate your view, but I'm getting a bit tired of the reviews and e-mails squawking indignation that I paired Irene Adler with him instead of Russell.  I've received something like ten thus far and I'm getting a bit annoyed at being told that I'm virtually committing heresy.
    
    I've read Mary Russell and don't think she's Holmes' true match at all. I loved "Beekeeper", but was disgusted with "Monstrous Regiment" and everything thereafter. To me, they work much, much better as friends and partners than lovers—the chemistry just isn't there, and she's in many ways his complete antithesis. 
    
    Irene Adler, with Holmes' open admiration for her and her wit to equally match his, is, to me, a far better match for him, and the one Doyle himself would have written, had he allowed Sherlock to love.  As this is the hinted canon Holmes romance, I think I have justification in writing it rather than firmly fanon Mary.
    
    I thank you for the reviews, but please, review my story overall instead of focusing on one tiny detail of secondary characters in one chapter.  Were this a Holmes story, I'd understand it better, but it's Severus Snape and Hermione Granger.  That said, please enjoy the story!


	2. Chapter Two

Snape sat reading the _Daily Prophet_ with Tosca on the back of the chair, leaning over his shoulder. _Turn it back,_ she commanded imperiously. _I wasn't finished!_

With a reluctant sigh, he turned back to the Sports page, grimacing at the picture of Harry Potter in his green Cardiff Dragons robes triumphantly capturing the Snitch and grinning at the adoration of the crowd, carefree as could be. 

_Three damn years of killings and darkness and he yet will keep his own eyes closed. Stupid, blind, arrogant boy: he'll get himself killed just as his father did,_ he thought. Tosca crowed happily over the Falmouth Falcons beating the Manchester Magnificents. 

Then she sighed and her tone sobered as she said, _May as well get it over with, Severus._ He turned to the Deaths section, both of them studying with a wince the names on the black-bordered page. Hardly a week went by without five or ten deaths to report, despite the best efforts of spies all over Europe. 

Voldemort had become wise when he realized much of his quarry was escaping and had quickly figured that spies were saving their lives. So much of the discussion and revelation of the victims at gatherings of the Death Eaters had been eliminated. The Death Eaters had turned from rattlesnakes giving a rattle in warning to cobras giving a silent and sudden strike. 

It would have been disheartening to others, but grimly he and Tosca plowed on, saving those who they could and quietly grieving those whose names hadn't reached their ears. They had saved twenty this past year--twenty who would have otherwise be reduced to a small blurb and a photograph of happier times on the Deaths page. 

There were three today. The names seared into his mind. Berea al Amini, widow of the late Minister of International Relations for the Middle East sector. They had caught her husband two months ago and just now finished the job with her. She had been only twenty; had graduated Hogwarts with Potter and the rest, from Hufflepuff. There was also Jasper Hampton, an Auror. And Igor Karkaroff. He smiled a little sadly at that. _He finally caught up with you, Igor._ Voldemort was nothing if not patient with his quarry--it had taken six years to find Karkaroff, and apparently had caught up with him in a small Russian Muggle village. 

He put the newspaper away and got to his feet wearily. A staff meeting was being held now summer was almost over to find a replacement for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, as well as Astronomy. Janney had suffered a nervous breakdown when Voldemort turned up the heat, and declared himself unable to handle the task. He hadn't been in the field since the battle against Rasputin almost ninety years before. And Sinistra…Cassiopeia Sinistra's face had been among those on the Deaths page a week before. Hogwarts was on high alert, with all the teachers and high-risk students (Muggle-borns, children of Aurors and Ministry workers, and the like) being made to stay at Hogwarts over the summer if possible, and for those that insisted on leaving, being put under enough wards on their home to break open Gringott's. Sinistra had been careless, somehow. 

Wearily the staff filed into the room Dumbledore held meetings in, and he took his usual chair by the door for quick retreat as soon as it was over. All eyes were carefully averted from Sinistra's chair, standing glumly and accusingly vacant. Janney had agreed to be in the selection to choose his successor, but that ended, he had declared, his responsibilities. 

Draco Malfoy gave him a nod and a small smile from his seat, a shadow of worry in his silvery-blue eyes. Snape knew what the young man was thinking, as he knew the same deep inside--if even quiet Sinistra who gave the Dark Lord no offense or cause was slated for death, people like himself and Draco were walking around with the equivalent of an enormous death's-head upon them. 

Dumbledore passed around five scrolls to each of them. Sibyl Trelawny was the first to state the obvious. "These," she said, her airy-fairy voice gone serious for a moment, "are all for the Astronomy post." 

"They're too frightened," Minerva said, with a soft sigh. They all could remember days only a few years ago when a DADA vacancy produced thirty applicants or more. But to take up such a vital position now put one immediately on Voldemort's high hit list. 

Snape tried to catch Dumbledore's eye to volunteer himself to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts. He had settled long ago for Potions, and found his happiness there, his niche and talent. But if nobody were willing to risk his or her own life to teach how to fight Voldemort, he'd do it. One more reason for Voldemort to kill him was no bother, really. If the Dark Lord ever caught him, he'd be able to pick and choose at will why to ensure his slow and painful death. 

However, Dumbledore gave him a quick smile and a shake of his head, telling him that he had a solution. "I would like you to turn your attention to the second applicant." 

Draco spoke up. "Granger?" He sounded surprised for a moment. "She's got an honors degree in Potions and Defense Against the Dark Arts, and graduated the London Auror's Academy, and she wants to teach _Astronomy_?" 

"Agreed, Draco," Dumbledore said calmly. "I had sent Fawkes to her with a message once we were aware we had--_vacancies_," he said the word with difficulty. "I believe you'd all agree she'd make an excellent teacher." General murmurs of approval went around. "However, I had hoped to guide her to apply for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position." 

Snape smiled a little. The girl wouldn't dare dream of taking up such a vital position: the very idea would make her protest and offer up people she thought much more qualified. He and Draco exchanged a look though, agreeing silently with Dumbledore's assessment of her ability to teach DADA. Dumbledore knew about her qualifications, of course. Draco knew now about Snape's Animagus ability, and Hermione's, since it was intrinsically tied into his own life and turn from the darkness. Snape and Dumbledore had informed him two years before. The rest of the staff, though, had nary a clue. 

Sprout spoke up in bewilderment. "Sir, she's very well versed in the theory of DADA, but don't we need somebody with _experience_ right now?" 

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "I am not at liberty to discuss details, but I might tell you that in the past few years, she had been of great assistance to the Ministry and has gained more than her share of practical knowledge of fighting the Dark Arts." 

The Headmaster's word was good enough for them, apparently. They all trusted him implicitly, for their own various reasons. And they understood the details being classified--much was unspeakable these days about the war. 

"I just hope she's prepared for it," Flitwick said, shaking his head a little sadly. 

In short order, Callisto Mycenae was also approved as the Astronomy teacher. With that, the meeting ended and a farewell was said to Janney. It was a month until the school year began now. Snape, Draco, and Dumbledore were the last to leave the room. 

"Sir?" Snape said casually. "Might I send Tosca with the letter? I believe she'd enjoy seeing Miss Granger again." 

Dumbledore gave him a smile. "Certainly." 

"Sir?" Draco asked. "Do you honestly think she'll handle it?" 

"I think," Dumbledore said, pushing in his chair and looking at both of them with clear blue eyes, "she will rise to the challenge as she has always done." With that, he turned to go to his office and write the employment offers to Hermione and Callisto.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Hermione was in her bedroom at home the next day reading an advanced text on Illusions. It had truly been a fascinating class, albeit one that saw her completely exhausted in the evening from the magical energy required to practice Illusions for three hours. 

Just then, there was the whisper of wings coming through her open window, and she looked up in surprise to see Tosca perching gracefully on her footboard. "Tosca!" she said happily. She hadn't seen the gyrfalcon in three years, since leaving Hogwarts. "Why are you here?" A dire thought came immediately to mind. "He's all right, isn't he?" 

Tosca gave a chuckle and dropped the scroll in her beak. _Oh, have no worries, my friend. He's as sarcastic and brilliant as ever. I'm actually bringing you a message from the Headmaster, but Fawkes was occupied taking a message off elsewhere, so I got volunteered._ She didn't sound too annoyed at carrying the message though. 

Hermione reached out and took hold of it. She had applied for the Astronomy position almost a month ago, and this was perhaps Professor Dumbledore's answer. She opened the sealed scroll, read it, and was shocked. 

"They want me to teach _Defense Against the Dark Arts?_ No, there has to be somebody better…" she protested, looking at Tosca. 

_Hey, don't ask me. I wasn't at the meeting!_ Tosca sighed and said confidingly, _Though Severus tells me that there were five applicants. They were all for Astronomy, too. They're practically begging you to take the post, Hermione. You're more qualified than the dreck they've had to rely on these past few years. You know Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and you have the courage to do this. It's no mistake._

"I see. Did Snape approve?" 

_Assuredly. He and Draco spent dinner reassuring everybody else about your selection. Ha, bet you didn't see that! Malfoy's become rather different, you know, now that he's not acting up. Still a bit of an arrogant piece of work, but…well, you'll see for yourself. Won't you?_ she added casually. 

Hermione laughed. "Well, the Ministry accepted me as an Auror." 

_Yes, but you'll be able to resume spying if you teach, which is more valuable than being Killing Curse fodder._

"I know. Of course I'll take the post. Do you want to just tell Professor Snape that, or shall I write something for you to give the Headmaster?" 

_Might be preferable to write it,_ Tosca said. _And you can call him Severus, you know._

Hermione smiled a little to remember those few months of the name sticking on her tongue when she had played the part of Musetta. Hopefully she'd get used to it now. The idea of it was still a daze, but she was thrilled at Hogwarts putting so much trust in her. 

The first thing she did while fishing about the study for paper and pen was tell her parents when they came to see what had her flying about like a whirling dervish. "They want me to teach at Hogwarts!" 

"That's wonderful," her father said softly. He gave her a small smile. "We always knew you'd be every bit as good as the children born to magic." But there was the sadness in his tone she had come to associate with them realizing that she was growing up and moving away from them into a world they could never understand or be a part of. 

Still, they had come to realize that she had to be her own person in these past few years, and although they still weren't overjoyed with losing her bit by bit to magic, they had come to terms with it, so long as she had promised to at least come back and visit. 

Her mother asked her to explain what she had been hired for, and she tried to explain it as best she could, without giving them idea of the war against Voldemort. It was too complex, too dark for those not of the magic world to comprehend. But the fumbling to explain and protect them make her feel the widening gap between them even more, and it wasn't without sadness that she recognized it again. A little more sedately, she headed upstairs.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
As soon as Hermione was out the door, Tosca called, _Hey! Crookshanks!_ The ginger cat slunk out of his kitty bed in the corner and eyed her sleepily. 

_Tosca!_ he seemed to immediately wake up. _What are you doing here?_

_Hermione's the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for next year,_ she said cheerfully. 

Crookshanks swished his tail happily from side to side, a somewhat odd habit with him. _Well, maybe there's another chance for those two. He's still unmated, right?_

Tosca gave a snort. _Quite. Approaching forty-one. I tell you, I've been trying for eleven years._

_A war isn't perhaps the best time for matchmaking._

_It's probably now or never, Crookshanks. And some of the best matches came out of times of strife, eh? Besides, what else can you and I do against Voldemort besides see to their well-being?_ she pointed out reasonably. _Well, I can carry some messages, but otherwise, all we can do is make sure they're happy and able to go spy. What better way to do that than try to get them together? So we underestimated the timeframe before. Won't do that again._

Crookshanks laughed. _All right, all right._

Just then, Hermione came back in with paper and a pen, scribbling a quick note, Charming it so that only Dumbledore could open it, and handing it to Tosca. "There you are. See you when I arrive in Hogsmeade!" she said cheerfully, seeing the falcon to the window. "Give him my regards!" 

Tosca nodded and flew towards Hogwarts, feeling relieved. She and Crookshanks had a second chance now. 


	3. Chapter Three

"Well, there you are!" Hermione turned from her trunk outside the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade, embarrassed that she hadn't had time to change the robe a clumsy patron had just spilled butterbeer on while she was eating a late lunch. 

But then she smiled broadly to see her former Head of House, dressed in casual robes of tartan in the MacPherson sett of red, hunter green and white on a dark blue background. "Hallo, Pro--ah--erm," she stumbled, unsure what to call the older witch now. 

McGonagall smiled knowingly. "Minerva, dear," she said, as usual somewhat rolling her r's with the typical Scottish relish for the practice. "After all, you are no longer Miss Granger, whom I must keep my eyes upon. Those are your things?" Hermione nodded, and with a casual flick of her wand, Minerva had the trunk and Crookshank's kitty carrier bobbing in midair. 

The ginger cat was not amused, and Hermione unfortunately understood his howling as he banged around inside his carrier. _Put me down right now, you! Hermione, I'm not meant to fly! I don't like heights…_

Minerva's lips twitched in an amused smile, obviously understanding the cat's protests with her Animagus ability. In five minutes, Hermione had seen her smile more than in seven years--apparently there was no professional façade of seriousness to upkeep, now that she herself was a professor. "Perhaps you would prefer to carry your cat?" she suggested casually. "He isn't very pleased." She added apologetically, "I'm afraid I never completely understood them…" 

That was true. Although Minerva could pass for a cat easily in Animagus form, she didn't really understand what made the creatures tick, just as Hermione herself did not completely understand Tosca. Assuming the form and mannerisms didn't naturally impart complete wisdom as to the animal's psyche. Minerva understood dogs better, apparently…she had encountered Murdoch, Minerva's scrappy Scottish terrier more than once, and every time she had taken tea with Minerva during her seventh year to make her reports as Head Girl, she'd been hard-pressed to not laugh at Murdoch's often quite witty mutterings delivered in an almost caricature-thick brogue. The general animal restrictions applying to students, naturally did not apply to staff, hence the presence of familiars such as Murdoch, Fawkes, and Tosca. _Ah, good old Tosca,_ she thought with a smile, picking up Crookshank's carrier and following Minerva up the path towards Hogwarts. 

They reached the front doors, and Hermione caught the direction that Dumbledore had called for a staff assembly as soon as she and Professor Mycenae had arrived, and Callisto Mycenae had arrived three hours ago. She blushed to be the last to arrive. Most of the staff had stayed the summer under the new guidelines, of course. "I'll show you to your room," Minerva said, leading her up the familiar moving staircase, "drop your things off, and it's for the meeting with us. The house elves will care for your things." Hermione still winced slightly at that, but recognized there were much more pressing battles to be fought in the wizarding world at present. 

Her rooms turned out to be a combination living room and study and a bedroom in between Hufflepuff and Slytherin. Minerva gave an apologetic look at that, explaining that there had been no possibility of rooms in Gryffindor. Hermione shrugged philosophically and replied, "I'm to favor all houses equally now, aren't I?" 

"In your teaching, but don't let me see you favoring Ravenclaw in our first Quidditch match," Minerva joked. "It's Gryffindor you'll always be, though you mustn't show it in your teaching, certainly." 

Hermione nodded idly and let Crookshanks out of his carrier as Minerva slowly lowered her trunk. Hastily she dug in her trunk for a fresh robe, putting it on over her shorts and t-shirt in place of the sticky, butterbeer soaked one. She was thankful that it was summer and that she could wear whatever she chose beneath her robes--it was almost unthinkably hot, even for August. The presence of the lake only served to make it even more humid and miserable. 

A quick Charm to bind her hair back into a ponytail and tidy it up, and she was ready to face the staff of Hogwarts, this time as an equal. Minerva discussed her Memory Erasing Potion on the way to the staff meeting room, obviously pleased that her student was being acclaimed for such a thing. The money the Ministry paid, while not the riches one could get from selling potions to pharmaceutical companies, wasn't to be sneered at either. 

Hermione was pleased to report that the potion was being put to good use, though it was somewhat of an awkward thing to say. The potion being used naturally implied a wealth of unpleasant memories, and thus unpleasant goings-on. Still, there could be no hiding from what Voldemort was doing. She saw the death reports the same as everybody else did, and she wondered momentarily how Snape was dealing with losing so many. 

They entered the meeting room, and everybody looked up to see the return of one of Hogwarts' own to the fold. For a moment it felt like three years before--almost all the old faces were there. Dumbledore, Sprout, Vector, Flitwick…and Snape. He looked to have not aged a day but for his eyes. They seemed to hold more secrets and hidden pain than ever when he looked at her, and gave a smile and a nod of greeting. She looked at Draco next, surprised to see how calm and assured he seemed. He too gave her a nod, and a wink as if to say, "Never thought we'd be doing this job; did you?" 

Greetings were soon over, and she studied for a moment Mycenae, a Slytherin from the class of 1975. She was obviously trying to catch Snape's attention--perhaps to reminisce upon old times. However, at that moment, Dumbledore spoke up. "I would like to welcome our new members, and greet again those who have been away." 

Everybody's attention was fully upon the aged wizard at the head of the table. She noticed he seemed to have aged terribly--he looked fully the one hundred and forty-seven that he was. But his voice, thought slightly wearied, carried the old power and command she remembered. She listened intently, wondering what he'd have to say.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
She certainly had grown up in three years. Snape studied her when she came in the door, self-consciously smoothing down her moss-green robes. Not just physically, although the last vestiges of childish softness had faded from her features. She walked now with a woman's air of self-assurance and confidence, and he had the feeling that the petty annoyances like the label of a know-it-all she had garnered at Hogwarts would not affect her now. The credit and accolade she had deservedly earned had given her a bit more spine, it seemed, and the rigor of training with Holmes. _Perhaps also knowing she was doing something in the war helped,_ he thought. 

But there were traces of the girl he had known as she sat in her chair, nervously biting her lip, as if a little afraid her former teachers would bite. She looked at him and he smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, aware that a smile for him was more generally almost a feral baring of the teeth. She smiled back though, then studying Draco and surprise registering in her eyes at the sight of him. 

Dumbledore went through the general greetings and introductions of new staff that were routine for every year. He then moved to a report of new regulations and the sort from the Ministry. Fudge grew more neurotic by the month, it seemed, and half his orders made absolutely no sense. He then proceeded to the latest report and suggestions of action from Arthur Weasley, who was the man of Dumbledore's forces now placed high in the Ministry as an assistant to Fudge, following the deaths of more than a few Ministry officials. He had been loath to accept promotion before, wanting to stay with his Muggle tinkering, but he had taken up high posts now at Dumbledore's behest, subtly influencing what came out of the Ministry day by day, and risking his neck doing it. It was probably the highest respect he had ever had for a Weasley. 

"There is the issue, then," Dumbledore continued, "of visits to Hogsmeade." 

"Sir, is it safe?" Vector protested. "We almost lost Carolina Hirschbaum last year…" The young Gryffindor had wandered out of the safe areas of Hogsmeade and had narrowly missed capture by Death Eaters. 

"We're looking," Draco agreed gravely with knowledge far beyond his twenty years, "at a possible massacre." 

To his surprise, it was Hermione who spoke up. "But sir, if you prohibit them from going, they'll find ways to sneak out…isn't it better that we let them go, but under our terms and conditions?" 

"The anti-Apparition wards have been extended to include Hogsmeade," he agreed, "and the Floo network in is disconnected. Conceivably, the only way they could come in would be by broomstick, and though they could use Invisibility cloaks or charms, the staff could bring a detector along while they chaperone…" 

Dumbledore nodded. "Let them be children while they may," he agreed. "Heaven knows they'll have to grow so quickly already…do I have agreement from all of you to supervise the children when they visit Hogsmeade?" 

"You don't want us following them everywhere, do you?" Flitwitck asked. 

"No, perhaps just to stand outside the shops, keep a lookout to sound the warning if necessary, and make sure they're all accounted for when it's time to come back," Minerva input. 

It was quickly enough agreed on, and discussion of increased security at Quidditch matches was next on the table. 

Two hours later, after having run through every new precaution and protocol for the year, the staff all-too-eagerly exited the meeting. As he turned to retreat to the dungeons, he was aware of Hermione calling his name from down the corridor. He turned and waited patiently while she approached. 

"Ah…Severus," she said, obviously a little uncertain of calling him by his first name, "how have you been?" 

"Largely the usual," he replied. "Teaching the whining little brats, being sarcastic as usual, and the normal night-life…" He knew she understood the last comment. 

"About that…does Tosca want a rest?" 

"Considering every week she gripes about flying off to go find herself a handsome falcon to nest with instead of dealing with idiot humans, I shouldn't doubt it." 

"How are you dealing with," she lowered her voice as they walked, "the anti-Apparition wards being extended?" Whereas one could before Apparate from the near edge of the Forbidden Forest, the wards had been extended to include a good deal of the forest in order to detract invaders. After all, only a fool would Apparate into the middle of the Forbidden Forest: to do so was nearly a death wish. 

He sighed. "It does waste a little valuable time, but it's all for the good. We fly out to the clearing in the middle of the forest, and land…it's a good thing you can Apparate in Animagus form, you know. We Apparate from there to the usual spot near Malfoy Manor." 

"I see," she nodded. "It's good to see you again, sir--I mean, Severus." 

"And you as well, Hermione." The name was strange upon his lips. "I suppose I shall see you at dinner tonight." 

She nodded. "I have some ideas," she said tentatively, "for classes. But…I wonder. Is it possible to discuss them with you, since you know the Dark Arts even better than I do?" She realized what she had said. "That is," she rectified, "you've been spying longer…I'm trying to figure out how to be credible and impart what I know without giving myself, or you, away." 

"Well, you've two weeks," he answered. "My Potions syllabus is, as usual, done. So certainly, I can assist you." 

"Thank you," she smiled, turning to go to her rooms. "After dinner, then?" He nodded, and headed for the dungeons. 

When he arrived Tosca was practically bouncing on her perch in eagerness. _I told you she's become quite grown up._

"Yes, Tosca," he said absently. "She has." 

_So has she volunteered to partner you again?_ she wheedled. 

"You can live in happy retirement from spying growing fat on too much hare," he assured her. "Now will you please stop giving me that look?" 

_What look?_

"That look you get when I know you're up to something. After eleven years, you had better know that I _know_ you." 

_Hrmph. You're rather crabby today. I know what will help--why don't you mate with her and get it over with?_ she suggested helpfully, hopping off the perch and flying out the window, chortling to herself as he stood there and cursed after her, debating whether to give her the satisfaction of transforming and giving chase. He decided the comment wasn't even worth the effort and sat down with a volume of Tolstoy until dinner. 


	4. Chapter Four

Two weeks later, Hermione sat at the staff table while Minerva led the shy newly arrived students into the Great Hall for the Sorting Ceremony. At least the oddness of it wasn't there from seeing the ceremony from this vantage point--she had been seated here at the staff table in her seventh year as Head Girl. For this year, Oliver Rathbone, the Ravenclaw Head Boy, and Arabella Vickersham, the Slytherin Head Girl, sat there with them. 

The Sorting Hat's song was slightly more perfunctory and subdued than in years past, Hermione noticed with a sigh. The first years' ranks were thinned, and the first name Minerva called from her scroll, "Abernathy, Jennet," didn't come forward. With a jolt Hermione realized what it meant, and recalled the name from the papers. Jennet Abernathy--the daughter of Frederick and Samantha Abernathy. Killed in June with her parents and older brother, Harvey, a Ravenclaw. There were a few moments of respectful silence for young Jennet, and Minerva went on to the next name. "Andrews, Thomas!" 

A stocky, brown-haired young boy stepped up to the stool, sat down, and placed the hat upon his head. After about ten seconds, the hat cried, "Hufflepuff!" The Hufflepuff table set up a cheer. "Bennet, Jillian," a blond girl, became a Ravenclaw, as did, "Boxhall, Joseph," a small, black-haired boy. 

"Firiens, Henry," and "Janeway, Bonnie," also did not step forward to be sorted. The first new Slytherin was "Lightoller, Herbert," a fair-haired lad. She saw Snape smile slightly at that. She herself was relieved when, "Lowe, Harold," was the year's first Gryffindor. She studied him as the Gryffindor table gave a roar for its new member. He was slender, with dark brown hair, and grinning widely. _Keep an eye on that one. Lightoller too. They look full of mischief,_ she thought. 

The Sorting proceeded through "Montverde, Melanthe," a Slytherin, pausing again to acknowledge the loss of "Nelson, Douglas," then proceeding calmly through the rest to "Zales, Gerald," who became a Hufflepuff. Dumbledore rose to his feet, studying the four tables before him, and the chatter of welcoming the new house members silenced. "I would like to take," Dumbledore said softly, but his voice echoed throughout the Great Hall, "a few moments in memory of those we have lost this summer." 

The list began with Harvery Abernathy, Jennet's older brother. Eight names, including the four who would now never attend Hogwarts. The hall was respectfully silent for a few minutes, as thoughts of friends, classmates, and pupils lost went through all their minds, from the newly sorted children to the oldest among them, Dumbledore himself. 

Things resumed a semblance of normalcy, and she looked out at the four tables, smiling a little to herself to see the prefects already taking it upon themselves to show the new children the ropes. It felt so odd--she had been a student herself with the current fifth years and up. So much had changed, too, from what she had known. Hester Latterly of Gryffindor, now a seventh-year prefect, had been a third-year when she had left for Lothlorien. And apparently Hester was serious romantically with William Monk, a prefect in Slytherin now, whom she gladly would have gutted when she and Monk were both thirteen. She looked closely and saw a ring on Hester's left hand. _Serious indeed._ And yet Slytherins and Gryffindors still were giving each other grief across the hall, and it was like every other Greeting Feast she had been to in her student years. It felt at once like everything and nothing had changed in three years. 

An hour later, the students retired to their dormitories. John Evan, one of the Hufflepuff prefects, gave her a smile as he passed by, the new Hufflepuffs following obediently behind him. She had tutored him in her sixth year in Potions, and he had been profoundly grateful. She smiled back, and once the hall was empty, rose with the rest of the staff to adjourn to her own room for the night. After all, classes began in the morning, and she was to be thrown right in the fire with seventh-year Gryffindors and Slytherins, followed by first years from the two houses later in the day. She was more concerned about the seventh-years respecting her as a teacher, particularly the Gryffindors she had shared a common room with so shortly before. _I'll think about it tomorrow._

She unbuttoned her robes, in the mandatory Hogwarts black, even for staff, and sat in the cushy armchair, reading about the defeat of Rasputin in 1918, fascinated to note the role her predecessor, Professor Janney, had played in the Dark wizard's downfall. Crookshanks hopped on her lap and proceeded to snuggle down and leave ginger fur all over her. 

There was suddenly a banging on the door, and she stood up without thinking, sending Crookshanks to the floor yowling in protest. She said a quick apology as she hurried to the door, wondering what appeared so urgent. She removed the ward, opened the door, and barely had time to utter a greeting as Snape swept in, moving swiftly towards her window while saying over his shoulder, "They've called--hurry!" 

She was dumbfounded. Never had she seen him in such haste when they had gone spying before, but she quickly cast the ward protecting the room again, and rapidly transformed, grateful she had kept in practice with the skill. She caught up to him in flight just over the gates of Hogwarts. _What's the rush?_ she asked, grateful that a peregrine falcon was by nature a little swifter than a gyrfalcon and that she wasn't having to work quite as hard to keep up with him. 

_It's all changed since you were last out, Hermione. You'll see what I mean,_ he answered, banking towards the clearing in the middle of the Forbidden Forest. She followed mutely, as they landed upon the grass and rapidly Apparated to their old spot, seeing the forbidding form of Malfoy Manor close by once again with a slight prickle along her spine. 

They located the Death Eaters holding their gathering in the gardens again, and the first thing she noticed was that a few of the prominent Death Eaters were missing. She remembered reading about Avery and McNair's deaths, but she resolved to ask Snape what he knew of them. The _Daily Prophet_ said only that they had died under "mysterious circumstances". 

Voldemort received reports on the killings of the week before, and seemed to be nearly purring in pleasure. Then it was a fifteen-minute diatribe about the filth of Muggles and those who supported them, the Death Eaters all nodding eagerly. Hermione waited for him to declare the targets for the next night and who was to execute his orders, but instead, he simply nodded to Lucius Malfoy, whose figure she'd recognize even in her nightmares, by his right side and said simply, "The Waldens." 

Lucius bowed in acknowledgment and began mulling the Death Eaters, trying to decide who would accompany him. _Stop gawking! Go!_ Snape hissed, launching himself from the branch and landing a few hundred yards away, out of sight and earshot for the Death Eaters. _The Waldens, in Hull. Apparate to their bedroom, and quickly!_

She quickly did as he said, and found herself standing at the foot of a bed, unable to see anything but blankets from her lack of height, and that only faintly due to the darkness. Snape beside her had transformed to his human form, and she rapidly followed suit. He shook the shoulder of the man asleep in the bed none too gently. 

He cast a quick _Laryngius_ Charm, stifling any protest or alarm. "The Death Eaters are only a minute or so behind us. Get your daughter and Apparate to the Ministry, and do it now!" She noticed he was careful to hide in the shadows and add a raspy edge to his normally-smooth voice in concealment. 

"Thank you," Walden said softly as his wife hurried out the door, obviously towards their daughter's room. Then he turned and headed after her, and not thirty seconds later, she heard the faint _pop_ that accompanied an Apparating from a little ways down the hall. 

He was at the window, and gestured for her to look. She could barely make out their shapes in the darkness, but saw them on the lawn, gathering and preparing to go about their gruesome work. Three of them, and she was only too eager to Apparate away from them, and felt a small frisson of triumph that their victims had escaped. 

They Apparated back to the far edge of the Forbidden Forest, and she tried to ask him about it, but he cut her off abruptly. "No time to talk. If I'm in my human form outside Hogwarts' wards for any length of time, they'll be here in a second to kill me." With that he changed to falcon form and took flight over the forest, she left again to trail doggedly behind, feeling stupidly like a novice at the entire thing again. It was if she had learned nothing since becoming an Animagus. 

They flew back to Hogwarts, into his quarters. He gestured her to a plush chair, offering to send for some tea or the sort. She shook her head in reply, leaning forward and inquiring, "So…please. It's all changed so much…" She trailed off, uncertain of what she was asking. _What the hell's going on? Yes, that likely fits._

He sighed, looking a trifle more pale than usual, obviously worn out from all the hard flying and the drain of multiple Apparatings in rapid succession. "It _has_ all changed. We got _too_ good at saving them, you and I. He's gone to giving no warning, just telling one of the higher-ranking Death Eaters to take a few from among the ranks and do the job right then and there. We were lucky this time." 

He was silent for a moment, then resumed. "Lucius dawdled a bit over his selection of accomplices tonight, it seems. We end up racing to see who can Apparate there first. Sometimes I would get there and get them out, and sometimes unforeseeable delays…not being able to land to Apparate for awhile, a fluctuation in the Apparation network…I'd arrive sometimes to find them already dead." 

"I…had wondered why so many seemed to still be dying." 

He grimaced. "Of course it's a close shave most times. Usually we haven't the luxury of Apparating away while they're still chatting up on the lawn. At Elena Filitova's, I Apparated out just as Wormtail came bursting through the bedroom door," he smiled humorlessly. "It's gotten much more dangerous, Hermione, and there's less room for error than ever before." 

"I still want to," she said with determination. "You couldn't scare me off it when I was eighteen. You won't now--anything truly worth doing is a risk." 

"Ever the Gryffindor," he said with a shaky laugh. "There is another thing, though." 

"Yes?" She was aware of Tosca shifting around a bit in her mews, probably asleep. 

"At times," he said, his dark gaze directly meeting her own, "he sends more than one killing…_crew_, I suppose…a night. A few times he's sent three or four. You saw that I jumped to it with the first names. That means that we will miss some. That's helped by the fact that I can go one place and you another, perhaps, and get both of them out in time. That's one thing Tosca couldn't do. But there may yet be ones that will die because we were busy saving others. Can you stand that?" 

His words of three years ago echoed in her mind. _Do you realize how powerless you are as a spy? You play God, Miss Granger, in deciding who must be sacrificed, and that is an assuredly heavy and awkward burden._ But it was a necessary one. Someone had to step up and shoulder it. She nodded in reply. "I can stand it," she said in a near-whisper. 

"Excellent," he said, something close to relief in his tone. "You had probably best get some sleep. You have a long day ahead of you tomorrow." He smiled a little. "Shall I come frighten the little brats into obedience for you?" 

"No, Severus," she said wearily, but still managing to laugh, "I think I'll handle myself." 

"Famous last words. Good night, then. Shall I see you to your room?" he offered. 

"No, I believe I'm all right," she said, bidding him good night as well and waiting for him to remove the ward from the door so that she could leave. Carefully she made her way to her room, then rolled her eyes to realize that she didn't have to worry about being after curfew any longer. 

She collapsed on her bed, deaf even to Crookshanks' inquiries as to how it had gone, asleep within seconds. Her last coherent thought was, _Teaching can't be half so nerve-wracking. I'll be fine…_


	5. Chapter Five

The next morning, Hermione was up in time for breakfast. She was up in plenty of time, actually. Sleeping restlessly through the night because of what she had seen with Snape, and also, she admitted to herself, because of the now-comparatively petty nerves of teaching. After all, the worst they could do was probably to hate her. The Death Eaters could kill her and be quite happy to do it. _Makes you feel rather foolish to be so jumpy,_ she thought wryly. _Still, I hope this goes well…_

Janney had left her some notes in a crabbed, Victorian hand that she had given up trying to decipher after a week and countless Neatening Charms. If even a neatening Charm couldn't clear up the writing, it was hopeless--though she thought she had the gist of where he had left off. Unfortunately, his techniques had been current with Rasputin, somewhat outdated with Grindelwald, and completely archaic now against Voldemort. 

After all, she had seventh year Gryffindors and Slytherins today, with their Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff counterparts the next day. She had to make certain they'd be ready for the fight by the end of classes--nine months to turn them into ready fighters. Considering the botched job she had experienced in her years at Hogwarts, it was a miracle she had turned out as decently as she had. 

She ticked off the teachers she had been through on her fingers, trying to figure which the seventh years had been taught by. _Suffered from is more like it_. The list ran like a Hall of Infamy for the most part. First was Quirrel, Voldemort's nervous servant. Then it had been Lockhart, the useless and lying git. A spot of light had been Lupin, who had been promising but then had been forced to leave. Then it was Crouch, who subtly had been undermining them in his disguise as Moody. Fifth year was Gerard, the American whose lessons had been quite good, but Voldemort ambushed and killed her just before the year ended. Then there had been well meaning but outmoded Janney for sixth and seventh year, and the years since up until her appointment. So her seventh years had been through classes with Gerard for a year, and Janney for five. She made a face. _Lots of ground to make up, indeed._

She sighed and dressed in a pair of plain black trousers and white blouse, shrugging on her unbuttoned black summer robes. Using hairclips to keep her hair out of her eyes, she wondered wistfully if she could get away with jeans and a t-shirt someday. Well, perhaps when she had been here longer. She didn't want a diatribe from Binns, who had been at Hogwarts when Victoria ascended the throne and would shout at the very idea of a woman covered less than neck to toe. 

Stepping into her favorite black lace-up boots, she stuck her wand up her sleeve, gathered up the portfolio with her syllabus and the like, and headed for the Great Hall. She arrived and grabbed one of the two open seats at the staff table. The other was between Trelawney and Binns. Binns, of course, didn't eat, but still attended meals as a matter of routine and appearance. She giggled to see Severus stalking in a minute later and grimacing when he saw where he had to sit. 

"Ooh, his two favorite people," Aylmeri Hooch said with a snicker next to her. "The Mistress of Doom and Excessive Incense, and Mister I-Don't-Have-Any-Fun-So-You-Won't-Either." 

"Oh yes. If Trelawney doesn't predict his death by the end of the meal I'll be surprised," she said lightly, slathering strawberry preserves on a piece of toast and taking a bite. She swallowed. "Were you nervous your first day?" she asked. 

"Probably not as much as you," Aylmeri grimaced. "After all, it doesn't rather matter in the war if they can pass my class, truly. Matters if they can counter curses and all. Still, they have to have confidence in you, that they hired you." Hermione nodded, relieved at that. 

Once the meal was over, she hurried to the classroom she had chosen to use. It was a large, spacious room above the dungeons, with plenty of light and fresh air. She turned to the chalkboard, picking up the chalk and writing her name in large letters. Stupid, really: they all knew who she was, as they had been here when she finished her seventh year. But it was a welcome distraction, so that she wouldn't be wringing her hands or the like. She heard them filing in, recognizing the low murmur of conversation. For a moment she thought stupidly that she had spelled her own name incorrectly, but then dropped the chalk on the ledge, dusting off her hands, and studying them. 

Fifteen students sat there: seven Gryffindor and eight Slytherin. With the seventeen Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs tomorrow, that meant that eight of the forty who had been Sorted her fifth year had been killed. Three were dead by the time she had left, but it was sobering to see the decimation outside Hogwarts reflected in the absence of those eight. 

She cleared her throat. "Well, I suppose you know who I am," she began. Even for the non-Gryffindors, they'd recognize her as having been their Head Girl for a year. "However, I'll make it clear now that what I _was_ is not what I am. I am your instructor, and as such, I am not a Gryffindor. So please do not think some of you will be favored," she eyed the Gryffindors, "or be held against," the Slytherins. The Slytherins looked a little more at ease now. 

"This is not going to be an easy year. You're old enough to know what's going on outside this castle, and you probably realize that in nine months, you will be out there in it, no matter if you're an Auror or a pet shop keeper. Voldemort's not particular about who he kills," she said seriously. "There is much Professor Janney hasn't taught you that is _vital_ to your education at this time. As such, I will work you hard. You may not like me for it, but you may thank me someday when it saves your life." 

"Sounds like bleedin' Snape," she heard a faint mutter from the Gryffindor side. She picked out the offender and smiled. 

"Care to repeat that, Mister Jennings?" Adam Jennings shook his head hastily. "Very well. I'm going to conduct today in this manner. I want to see where each of you is in your development. As such, I would ask that after I am finished explaining, you all remove yourselves to the corridor. I will bring you in one-by-one and evaluate you. No, this is not for a grade," she reassured. "It's just so I know where to begin." 

Dermot McGrail raised his hand amongst the Slytherins. "What do you propose to test us on?" he asked politely. "Knowledge of curses or what?" 

"Good question, but I'm not going to tell you," she replied. "Dark wizards aren't going to tell you what they're going to throw your way." 

With that, they filed into the corridor, looking nervous. She looked at the list and randomly selected one of them. Didn't want to go alphabetically and give those at the end the sense that they were safe for a time. She leaned out the door and called, "William Monk." She then cast a Silencing Charm on the room. 

The tall, slender young Slytherin followed her silently into the classroom. She sat down at her desk and turned to see him standing about ten feet away, wand at the ready. She grinned a little. "Very good." _Anticipated I might do something._ "You may sit, Mister Monk." He sat in a chair in the front row. "How are things for you?" she asked casually. 

"All right, Professor Granger," he replied, a slight look of bewilderment in his clear grey eyes. She noticed he put his wand down on the desk in front of him, ready to grab it. "So…what are you after here?" he asked. She noticed that his lilting Northumbrian accent had faded some in three years. He kept his eyes firmly on what she was doing instead of meeting her eyes. _Good sign._

"What do you know about the Myalgia Curse?" 

He looked thoughtful, running a hand through his dark hair and furrowing his brows. "Developed by Jenkins in 1801. It causes your muscles to ache so badly you literally can't move. Very effective little piece of work for stopping an opponent, as opposed to, say, the Furnunculus." He kept elaborating upon everything he knew about it, concentration on what she was doing slipping a little, while Hermione carefully slipped her wand out of her sleeve. 

She quickly aimed it at him and shouted, "_Disorientio!_" The Vertigo Curse: it so disoriented you that you didn't know which way was up or where your opponent was. She was quite pleased to see him snatch up his wand and get the correct countercurse almost in place before it hit him. Hadn't tricked him into expecting the Myalgia Curse, thank God. She finished the countercurse, noticing he was keeping his eyes tightly shut, because opening them would have him completely struck by the curse's effect. "Very good. Send Mister Kingsley in, please?" She looked at him as he left. "Breathe one word to the rest and it's fifty points from Slytherin." He grinned, nodded, and headed out the door. Kingsley, a rather large, blond Gryffindor, entered the room. 

He proved to be a near-disaster. Kept his wand firmly up his sleeve, met her eyes instead of watching what she was doing, and was promptly hit by the _Petrificus Totalus_ before he even had his wand out. _At least he knows a lot about the Shrinking Curse,_ she thought wearily, awaiting Hester Latterly. 

It was a long class. They weren't completely hopeless. Monk, Latterly, and Slytherin's Freeman were actually quite promising. However, on the whole the Slytherins had done much better at not letting their guard down. They were by nature wary, whereas Gryffindors came in, confident of her trustworthiness. Perhaps some of Monk's Slytherin habits had rubbed off on his fiancée that she had done so oddly well for a Gryffindor. Kingsley was probably the worst-case scenario. Most of the Gryffindors had done better, though. _It's a place to start,_ she thought. After all, she too had been that naïve and trusting before she had begun spying with Snape. 

Their theoretical knowledge of curses was quite profound. She intended to give a quiz during the next class to plumb just how well they knew them. And then she was going solidly to practical lessons. Knowing what something like what the Inverse Curse did to you really wasn't worth a damn if you were unable to protect yourself from it. 

Wearily she trudged off to lunch, plunking down in the seat next to Severus. "Didn't let them walk all over you, did you?" he asked calmly, taking a bite of chicken. 

"Hardly," she said, eating some of her consommé and savoring the taste. "I scared the hell out of most of them." 

"Haven't heard about it," he replied. "Surprising, as fast as word travels around Hogwarts. And the idea of you as a holy terror would be bound to spread." 

"I threatened two hundred points from the house that told what I did today before I got my hands on the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs tomorrow," she answered. 

"My. Quite the mercenary, aren't you? So what did you do to frighten the poor dears?" 

She explained her technique, pleased that he approved. "And your judgment of them?" he asked. 

"I never thought I'd say this," she muttered. "The Slytherins are in better shape than the Gryffindors," she admitted. "They're such a suspicious lot that it was harder to trick them." 

She let him have a quick smirk of satisfaction at that. "However, they all need work," she concluded. "Janney's let them down miserably." 

"Still, you turned out well," Snape replied, "after you got rid of that disgustingly Pollyanna view of life." 

"Why, thank you Severus," she replied sharply, giving him a bright smile at the left-handed compliment. It was first years after lunch, and she was confident of her ability to handle them. After all, starting them off right from the very beginning would be much easier than trying to correct six years of bad teaching for the seventh years. 

"They'll be all right for Potions?" he queried calmly. 

"No, I didn't maul them. Don't let them give you excuses," she chuckled. 

"I never do. And they're the better for it, I think." _Myself as well._   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
The seventh year Gryffindors and Slytherins filed into the dungeons after lunch, and Snape studied them. They looked rather tired, and he recognized some of the aftereffects of curses: Petrifying, Vertigo, Myalgia, and the sort. He raised his eyebrows, thinking, _She really has put them through the mill._ Not that she had used the truly nasty, painful curses, but she hadn't hit them with a gentle Leg-Locker either. 

"Firebomb Potions," he began. "Who can tell me the ingredients?" A hand was wearily raised after a few moments of silence. The ingredients were listed, and the potion's effect explained. He then proceeded to relate precisely how the potion was of practical use. Lobbing or magically hurling a bottle of Firebomb Potion at an enemy had much the same effect as a Molotov cocktail did for Muggles, without the danger of having to light a wick, and being on the whole more powerful. It could be used at a much greater distance than any curse, which was of great assistance. 

He set them to work brewing, debating whether to cast a surreptitious Energizing Charm over the lot of them so that they wouldn't collapse into their cauldrons. _No, they'll have to get used to doing tasks when they're worn out if they're going to fight,_ he thought. 

As he couldn't really test the potions without a lot of doing in setting it up to be completely harmless, he was thankful the Firebomb Potion was easily given away visually for correctness. A correctly done potion would be a bright red, whereas even the slightest mistake would turn it a shade of chartreuse. 

In between quietly reminding Monk and Latterly to focus on their potion rather than each other, and trying to prevent Lownes and Xavier from putting merman hair rather than required mermaid hair into the potion, it went fairly well. Better than the fourth year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs that morning, that was for certain. It was still with relief that he cleaned up the dungeons and retired up to the Great Hall for dinner. 

Another year begun--he had to face first year Slytherins and Hufflepuffs tomorrow. Maybe they wouldn't be a complete bunch of dunderheads. He saw Hermione sitting next to Minerva, the two of them in animated conversation, and headed for a seat beside Flitwick. It would be an hour of listening to the little professor chortle about Ravenclaw beating Slytherin last year for the Quidditch Cup. Monk, Slytherin's captain, was still annoyed over it. He had come to Snape right after Potions and asked to have tryouts right that week so as to get an early start. Permission granted; he had marched off to probably post bulletins about it. 

As predicted, Flitwick turned to him. "Think your Quidditch team has a chance this year, Severus?" he asked gleefully. 

"No, Athol, Ravenclaw will flatten them," he replied, rolling his eyes. "Of course they do." _Do they have a chance against Voldemort, though?_ That was a much more important question. 


	6. Chapter Six

It was late September with the leaves in full splendor, though they saw none of it as they perched outside the Malfoy Manor and created a view into the dungeons. Hermione shuddered, knowing that the very darkest Death Eater activities were accomplished there. _So people can't hear the screams,_ she thought with a sick feeling. Was she about to watch a repeat of the scene three years before that had precipitated Draco's burning all bridges behind him? 

_Are they still killing Muggles like that girl?_ she asked softly, fluffing up her feathers as insulation against the chill breeze. Almost the entire complement of Death Eaters was here this night, which was odd. Snape had explained that on any given night a half to a third would not be present, being busy carrying out their orders across Europe from the Dark Lord. 

_Not as often,_ he replied. _Not as much time for idle pastimes like that--Voldemort has them on killing crew probably four meetings of five. They're not just fooling around with killing a few random people, Hermione. He's out for blood, and lots of it._

She nodded in reply, grasping the sill tighter with her feet and watching. Voldemort looked towards a small, locked door in the dungeons. "Bring him," he said curtly to two of the minor Death Eaters. They scurried to do his bidding, opening the door to the pitch-black cell. One cast a _Lumos_ and grabbed the figure who tried to rush out of the cell, babbling pitifully. 

They grabbed his arms, for it was a man, and hauled him upright, dragging him as he screamed and cried for mercy towards the Dark Lord. "My Lord," she finally recognized the voice of Heathcliff Nott, "I am innocent!" Nott's eyes darted around wildly as he struggled with the two Death Eater pinioning him. 

"_Laryngius,_" Voldemort hissed, pointing his wand at Nott. "Silence, you filth. You were _seen_ passing information to Aurors by _three_ of my loyal Death Eaters, and I have long had reason to suspect you. Oh yes, Nott, I have heard whispers from your fellows of suspicion for some months now. Do not deny your treason to _me_." Despite the Charm on him, Nott was silently still screaming in protest. 

_What? I thought Nott was one of his most devout followers,_ Hermione said, confused. 

_I'll explain,_ Snape said grimly. 

"I leave him to you, my Death Eaters, to exact your vengeance for his betrayal," Voldemort said to the ranks of Death Eaters with a cold, lipless smile. 

Half an hour later, Nott could barely stand from the torture he had taken. He was twitching still from Cruciatus as he was lying on the floor, and his dull, unfocused eyes suggested that he had been driven mad by the prolonged bouts. Bleeding, broken, and writhing in pain, he barely noticed when Voldemort carefully stepped around the pool of blood beneath his body and crouched over him. "Thus always," Voldemort said with an unholy glow in his red eyes, "to traitors." He placed the tip of his wand between Nott's eyes and spoke the Killing Curse. "_Avada Kedavra_!" Nott's tortured body slowly relaxed in death as Voldemort stalked back to his place. 

"Let this be a lesson," he said, eyeing each Death Eater in turn. "You do not betray Lord Voldemort and live to tell the tale." He smiled malevolently. "At least, not for long." A nervous laugh went through the ranks. "Now get this filth out of here," he said, gesturing to Nott's body. The Death Eaters hurried to obey. 

He called for no deaths that night--apparently the execution of Nott had slaked his bloodlust for the evening, or so she hoped. If there had been orders given at another time to be accomplished tonight, there was no hope of them stopping it. Still, it was awhile before Hermione roused herself enough to fly away, aware of Snape following her. She had seen the death of Perpetua MacIvor in Snape's memories, but if anything, Nott's death had been even more brutal. Hardly a bit of skin had been left unmarked by burns, bruises, and cuts. They hadn't even left him the dignity of dying without being violated--two of them had had seen to that. 

Back in her quarters at Hogwarts, they resumed human form and she wordlessly gestured him to a chair upholstered in a cream-and-blue stripe fabric. He settled wearily, and his gaze immediately met hers. 

"Nott was innocent," he said frankly. "Of betrayal of Voldemort, anyhow." 

"But…what? How, then?" she said, feeling almost incoherent. "How did they see him passing information to Aurors?" 

He sighed, smiling briefly when Crookshanks hopped onto his lap, yowling, _Well, what's one Death Eater less?_ Crookshanks turned and settled down, urging Snape to pet him. He obliged. 

"Three years ago," he began quietly, "Lucius called Draco home over the Easter holiday to meet the Dark Lord as a prospective Death Eater. That you know. However, while he was home, he managed to secure hair from more than a few of the top Death Eaters." He looked at her again. "Over the past year, he's gotten up the determination to go out under the influence of Polyjuice Potion as a Death Eater and start subtly undermining that Death Eater in the minds of his or her fellows." 

"But being caught with an Auror?" 

"Once the rumor is widespread, he then makes certain the 'traitor' is caught red-handed. Mister Weasley is _very_ obliging about being in the right spot to meet Draco in disguise and be seen perfectly clearly by the Death Eaters Voldemort has sent to trail and report on what's going on." He smiled wryly. "At the next gathering, the 'traitor' is captured and then executed. No trial, no appeal, no offers to testify under Veritaserum." He raised an eyebrow and studied her. "Does that offend your sensibilities?" he asked quietly. 

"It's somewhat underhanded," she said quietly. "But it's necessary. Severus, if we _caught_ any Death Eater, he'd be subjected to the Dementor's Kiss without hesitation--that is the law now, courtesy of Fudge. We both know that. So they'll die," she sighed, "in any case. They are the enemy, after all. And there is a certain irony in making Voldemort deplete his own forces and weaken his cause." 

He nodded. "So far, we've eliminated McNair, Avery, and Nott in that manner. Draco is hard at work on the Lestranges and," another wry smile, "Lucius right now. But it'll take more time and evidence to convince Voldemort of their betrayal--they're much more in the inner circle than those three were." 

She was surprised to hear about Draco's actions. Though if she had cause to be burning with the eagerness to get out there and help eliminate the evil, he must have at least as much, if not more. "I'm sure his knowledge of them," she nodded, "allows him to be convincing playing their parts." 

"Very much so. He considered becoming a spy as you and I have, but figured that this was as helpful. And truthfully, it's good to have somebody else working in another area: three spies is good, but we do need people doing other things." The corner of his mouth lifted for a moment and he chuckled. "And I personally don't think he'd want to go through the Animagus transition and find himself a ferret." 

She laughed outright at that. "Speaking of, if he's working closely with the Aurors to set up traps and such, how is he working with Mad-Eye Moody?" 

"Oh, it took about six months for him to trust Draco, but he's grown _quite_ fond of him since Draco handed over Avery." At her questioning glance, he sighed, looking down at Crookshanks for a moment. "He had personal grief against Avery," he explained shortly. "His daughter was Gerald Meridius' wife. And when he heard what had been done to her before she died, and found it was Avery that had done it…" He was silent for a moment. "He tried to attack Avery directly at a Death Eater gathering right after he found out. That was when he lost his eye." 

"I see," she said, heart going out to the gruff old Auror she had come to know during her year at Baker Street. "He works a lot with Ron?" 

"Indeed. Once Mister Weasley became convinced that Slytherins don't eat small children for breakfast, he's proved to be quite helpful to Draco. He still doesn't know about you and I…the less an Auror knows, the better. Even the strongest will can't stand up to Veritaserum if Voldemort were to capture them." 

She nodded, secretly glad that Snape approved of Ron though. "And Harry?" she said with a sigh. "Has he shown any signs of interest?" 

"Not a one." He petted Crookshanks idly, looking away for a moment out the window. "But had I been touted as the savior of the wizarding world since I was eleven years old and been expected to kill Voldemort the moment I was out of Hogwarts, I too might have thrown that burden off my shoulders and run like hell as he has." He shook his head. "I just hope he comes to his senses," he murmured. "I don't think we can win without him. All we are doing is holding on, day by day, and waiting." 

She wasn't actually surprised at that admission, now that she had seen behind his acting. "What does Professor Dumbledore say to that?" she said softly. 

"He keeps blaming himself for putting too much upon Mister Potter," Snape sighed. "He merely says that when Harry has grown into his role that he knows he will resume it." He smiled wearily. "Fond of comparing Mister Potter and I. After all, for three years after _I_ was out of Hogwarts, I was a Death Eater before I realized what a wrong turn I had taken trying to escape their image of me…rather the same, he says." 

"And you came back to your senses," she reminded him. "Their image of you?" she queried carefully, wondering if he'd tell her about his past. 

"That's enough for tonight," he said brusquely, perhaps realizing that he had maybe said too much. "Good night, Hermione." With that, he headed for the door as she lifted the ward with a sigh, knowing she'd get nothing more from him. 

After he was gone, she went to the tin of Floo powder on the mantle and used it to call up Draco Malfoy's room and stepped into it. She apologized hastily and averted her eyes from him, as he was clad only in a towel. She noticed he had gotten a tan from his hours working outside. "I came to tell you," she said, staring out the window, "that they executed Nott tonight." 

"They caught him?" Relief was palpable in his tone. She let her eyes go to the Snidget in a cage beside the window, smiling at its melodic chirping. The room was full of magical creatures, suited to his teaching position. "Good…Weasley and I had to really act up. I was one step short of shouting loudly that I wanted to pass over vital information to the Aurors so those idiots hiding in the trees would hear and understand. All right, I'm decent." 

She nodded, turning to him as he shrugged on his robes over his shirt and trousers. "Severus says you're setting your father up," she said quietly. 

He grimaced. "Don't make me sound like some sort of Oedipus, Hermione. Did you know that I was conceived at a Death Eater gathering?" he said shortly. "A ritual to create a child destined for darkness, and of course I was to be used to springboard Lucius to greater glory. I owe him nothing." 

"And your mother?" she asked. 

"She's sent me an owl or two in secret, telling me to keep safe. She hates him. Arranged marriage between them," he said, taking the Snidget from its cage and idly petting it. "Thank you for telling me," he said quietly. 

She nodded and exited his room, heading back towards her own. As she was stripping off her robes, there was a sudden knock on her door. She took off the ward and answered, and found Callisto Mycenae standing there. "Professor Dumbledore's called all the staff for a meeting," she said, turning on her heel and hurrying towards the meeting room. Hermione reset the ward and chased after her. 

Dumbledore, Draco, Snape, and Sprout were already there. Over the next five minutes the rest trickled in, tiny Flitwick being last. Dumbledore cleared his throat and held up a piece of parchment. "This was delivered to me about twenty minutes ago. There has been a _coup_ at the Ministry. Cornelius Fudge has been deposed and sent to St. Mungo's for treatment." A sigh of relief ran through the room. Fudge's neurotic actions were worrying almost the entire wizarding public these days. 

"Who is the new Minister of Magic?" Sprout spoke up. 

Dumbledore was silent for a few moments. "They have declared Arthur Weasley for the job," he said quietly. "I will make the announcement tomorrow." There was a cheer for that. Weasley had been working behind Fudge's back for years in helping the resistance, and his new position lent a great deal of aid to the war. But she could have sworn there was an odd look in Dumbledore's eyes when he said it, and the image stayed with her even as she fell asleep in her bed an hour later. 


	7. Chapter Seven

Hermione's twenty-second birthday passed with little fanfare, which was largely the way she preferred it be. The professors in general gave her several small gifts: she was particularly amused by Sibyl Trelawny's giving her a life horoscope based upon her birth date. 

After ignoring the arcane symbols decorating the edge of the thing and stifling a giggle at some of its ludicrous predictions, she stuffed it in her desk drawer for amusement on a rainy day. Snape gave her an old Victorian volume on potions written by Holmes, which she received gratefully. She saw him smirk at Trelawny's horoscope, and she smiled in return in acknowledgment of a shared joke. 

There was a certain calm routine to the first few months. By day she was trying to get her students into shape in Defense Against the Dark Arts. The first year Gryffindors and Slytherins were giving her a headache: young Lowe and Lightoller had taken a dislike to each other and had been n a few scuffles in her class. Thankfully, even magic-born Lightoller hadn't learned enough curses to have a wizard's duel, so the damage was confined to that caused by fists. Snape had threatened the hell out of Lightoller the last time, and McGonagall had taken Lowe to task (even though Lightoller had begun it by lunging at Lowe when the boy made a sarcastic reply to Lightoller's deriding Lowe's Muggle birth). There hadn't been an incident for a few weeks now, and it was the week before Halloween. 

The seventh years were getting into shape decently, and the sixth years were not far behind. In all, she was pleased with their progress, and Dumbledore had let it be known that he was pleased with _her_. 

And by night she and Snape still kept up the desperate rescue operations. She still grieved the few they had missed, but even Snape admitted things were going better now that they could save two families in one night. Even still, sometimes she dreamed of the families they arrived to find stricken dead, sick with horror and guilt. Draco was hard at work on sabotaging Wormtail and Lucius Malfoy, as those two were linchpins of the entire Death Eater organization. She saw him looking exhausted some days, and knew Snape was providing him with Wakefulness and Energizing Potions on a regular basis. _How much longer can things go on like this before something breaks, for any of us?_

She didn't know. The war had intensified, and Voldemort's blood lust wasn't satisfied with Muggles and Aurors. He was calling for assaults on larger prey, though he was vague about whom he meant. He could mean Dumbledore perhaps, or Arthur Weasley. Weasley was very open and defiant in his proclamations against Voldemort. It stirred the wizarding world into a frenzy of organization and resistance, whereas things had been fractured terribly under Fudge. But they all knew that in acting in such a fury against Voldemort, Weasley had effectively painted a large bull's-eye on himself. She had warned Ron to be careful when he had come to Hogwarts early in October to meet with Draco on strategy. 

It was Saturday now, and she was grateful for the respite from classes. She felt like Alastor Moody at times, ready to bark about "Constant vigilance!" and the sort. She was out walking the grounds, enjoying the fresh fall breeze and the crunch and rustle of the fallen leaves underfoot, remembering days as a child playing in heaps of them. 

_Maybe Tosca would like to go flying,_ she thought. The only excursion she had made out from Hogwarts had been to Hogsmeade two weeks before, and although the staff had agreed to continue the visits, they were briefer and more harried affairs than before. She had taken the opportunity to buy herself a new set of robes at Gladrags, and Snape had stocked up on Potions ingredients. Then the two of them had hastily ushered the students, laden with Zonko's gags and Honeydukes' sweets, back to the castle, eyes searching the horizon all the while warily. It was good to just have a freedom flight now and again. 

She began scanning the sky for the big white gyrfalcon, since she'd probably be out hunting today. Either that or chasing after a silver tiercel she had apparently found last month, and was a little smitten with. She recognized the flight of a gyrfalcon towards the Forbidden Forest, but the color that came to her sight was not white, but black. 

_Snape's out to spy?_ she thought. _Oh damn, and he must have been looking for me. Didn't find me and decided to get going. Funny that there would be a meeting in the afternoon, but they've done it before…I can still catch him, perhaps. He's not running off without me--not safe._ In the time it took to transform and fly after him, he was already nearly at the clearing in the middle of the forest. She was a bit too slow: he Apparated just as she dove to land beside him. 

With a mental shrug, she fixated her Apparating with the command, _Nearby Severus Snape._ When she came to her senses, though, it wasn't the usual sight of Malfoy Manor looming above her on the hill. 

Instead, she saw him up ahead lighting gracefully on a churchyard fence for a moment, peering around, and then gliding lazily to the foot of two graves. _Who is it?_ she wondered, not daring to approach. Obviously he wasn't here to spy, but she dared not move and make noise that would attract attention. It was a simple mistake that she found herself here, but she got the feeling he might get cross if he found her. 

He sat there for a minute, a huddled, small black form. He was saying something, but from her hiding place in the trees, she could make out no words. Then a patch of grass slowly Transfigured to wildflowers, obviously by his doing, which he stepped over to and carefully picked up in his beak, putting the bright, fresh blossoms on the graves. He stood there for another minute in quiet reverence, and then Apparated away. 

Obviously he could not come here in his human form, but who was so important that he would risk coming here in any form whatsoever? She knew so little of him that curiosity overwhelmed her, and she flew down to the graves. 

The inscription was somewhat hard to read, as ivy had largely overtaken the small churchyard. The roar of the sea was in her ears--from the trees she had seen it not too far away. The smell of brine and cry of gulls wasn't too hard to discern. _Navigus_, she murmured, wondering where on Earth she was. 

The Mapping Charm produced a ghostly, translucent map in front of her eyes, and she saw that she was on the north coast of Wales, in a place called Deganwy. It was a peaceful, beautiful place, truly. 

She stepped forward awkwardly on her falcon feet and studied the double stone, etching the inscription into her mind as surely as it was carved into the grey marble. Beneath "In Loving Memory of" were the names. "Stepan Mikhaelovich Morozov. Born January 13, 1940. Died October 27, 1981." Only forty-one years old. She moved to the other half with some discomfort. "Anastasya Sergeievna Morozova. Born April 14, 1941. Died October 27, 1981." Obviously somebody from the Morozov's native Russia had seen to the stone, since Anastasya's last name inscribed as "Morozova" in the Russian fashion, rather than the "Morozov" a Briton would have put. 

_They died the week before Voldemort was defeated by Lily Potter,_ she realized, a shudder going down her spine. _Were they two of the Dark Lord's last victims--two he failed to save?_ She realized it was October 27th that day--the twentieth anniversary of their deaths. 

With many more questions than she had come with, she Transfigured a small rock to two small bouquets of lily-of-the-valley, which she seemed to remember stood for remembrance. Whoever the Morozovs had been, Snape remembered them, and obviously mourned their loss. _Or did it stand for happiness?_ Well, it was the sentiment that counted. 

She Apparated back to the clearing in the Forbidden Forest, the image of the two quiet graves in her mind. She could not ask him who they were without revealing her clumsy blunder in following him, and she didn't want him to know that she had seen him there grieving. It was too personal, too private. If he had wished to share it with her, he would have. 

As she flew back to Hogwarts, though, she finally encountered Tosca. _Hallo,_ Tosca said, lazily dipping her wings and banking to drop into flight beside her. _Where have you been?_

She sighed, wondering if Tosca would know anything. After all, the gyrfalcon joked that Snape had ranted to her for years, smugly concluding, _Because he thought I could never repeat a word of it._

_Fly for awhile,_ she requested. 

_Saw some good hare if you're interested._ The part of Hermione that was human really had no interest in _eating_ raw hare, but she acquiesced to hunting with Tosca. After all, the falcon had to eat. 

_Do you know anything about a family called Morozov?_ she finally asked as they glided over the moor. 

_Should say so. I'm familiar to one of them, after all…_ Tosca answered, eyeing the ground sharply. _Was that one?_

_No, just grass blowing. What do you mean? You were owned by one?_

_Am, dear. Present tense. Sev's one._

_What?_ She cut in front of Tosca and looked back over her shoulder. _You know about all this?_

_Who the hell do you think he talked to when everybody else avoids him like the plague? A teddy bear?_ Tosca said scornfully. _All right, I'll tell you if you promise to bring me something from the kitchens to make up for the hare I'll be missing._

_Deal. Just don't tell him you told me._ She explained how the question had come up as they landed on the branches of a tree and settled in comfortably. _So of course I wondered who they were, even if I found them by accident._

_Some of it's his to tell, if he so chooses,_ Tosca answered, preening her wind-blown feathers for a moment. _But our sarcastic Potions Master was born in Russia. Aleksandr Stepanovich Morovoz, by name. Not as bad as the days of Stalin his parents grew up in, but to make it short, the Soviet government didn't like magic, among other things, and stole away anyone showing signs of it for testing or God knew what else. Salem, Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and the rest started a sort of trafficking to get Muggle-born magic children out of Russia, since they and their parents had no clue what was going on and would have been sitting ducks for the KGB._

_And Snape…um…Morozov…well, you know, was one of them._ She stated the obvious. _They came to England to get away…_

_He changed his name when he came to Hogwarts to start anew, with Dumbledore's approval. Kept his middle name as Alexander, interestingly enough. Seen that on papers he's signed. Can understand why he picked up a British wizard-sounding name, though. Not good to be Russian in the West in those days--middle of the Cold War. Not quite as bad as with the Yanks, but I'm sure the Muggle children were none too fond of him. He made up an entire past, especially since he was in Slytherin--created a life as a supposed magic-born to survive. The Serpent's Den isn't hospitable to those who don't fit in now, and it was apparently worse then._

_You're telling me._ William Monk, the only Muggle-born in Slytherin right then, had passed a hell of a time to begin at Hogwarts. 

_So yes, got through Hogwarts. That's about all I know, except that he's an only child and that his parents died the week before Voldemort fell. Don't know if they were killed by means magical or Muggle…he never speaks of it._ Tosca glanced her way and went on. _I only know this because he got completely pissed on vodka, of all things, six years ago on the anniversary and was bemoaning how he couldn't even go visit their graves, since he was trapped in Hogwarts without exception at that time. First year he was stuck, of course. Just started rambling to me about all this._

_I see._ It put a whole new facet on things, that was for certain, and raised yet more questions. Still, she resolved not to ask any of them. If he wanted to tell her, that was fine. If not, it was no use her prying. That was a lesson she had learned since his tutelage her seventh year. 

In near-silence they flew back towards Hogwarts. At dinner she felt like she could barely look at him, as though he'd see it in her eyes. He had tried so desperately to fit in at Hogwarts, by changing his name, his past, working hard, but it had come to nothing. He glanced up at her and their eyes met. She willed herself to keep steady, and smiled a little back at him when the corner of his mouth lifted slightly. Carefully she buried the new knowledge deep in her mind. She might not have intended to discover it, but she didn't intend to use it against him in any way. If he ever told her about his past, well, she could just act as though she knew nothing whatsoever about it. 

She nodded decisively at that, and was composed enough to talk with him as they walked the corridors after dinner. He asked her opinion on a potion that he was working on, his license to do restricted research having been reinstated by Arthur Weasley, and she answered him, relief sweeping through her. Like old times, except that instead of teacher and pupil, they were now on footing as equals, and he always treated her as such without a misstep or awkwardness. "Hmm. Well, you might try the cherry bark," she answered, as they walked towards the dungeons.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Young Bert Lightoller grinned as he saw them together and wondered if perhaps he might annoy Harold Lowe by telling him that a teacher from his house liked a _Slytherin_. Then again, the idea of Professor Snape being so senseless as to like a bloody _Gryffindor_ wasn't something he wanted to trumpet in the common room. He scurried off when William Monk ushered him towards the common room, sternly informing him that he had best study Transfiguration harder. _No accounting for taste,_ he thought. 


	8. Chapter Eight

He hated November. Given choice, Snape would have slept the entire month away in his bed. It wasn't that he was in dread of the encroachment of age, like that idiot Mycenae bemoaning every micro-wrinkle and grey hair. It was just the looking back on another year of his life and wondering what the hell it had all been for. November 14th upon him again, and he was forty-one now. Wearily he wondered, as he opened his eyes that morning, where his life had gone. Granted, he still had probably a good hundred and fifty years ahead of him, but the first quarter of his life most days didn't seem like much. 

He hadn't even really told the other teachers his birthday--calling attention to himself over it would have quite frankly embarrassed him. He much preferred to pass the day as any other. It was a Wednesday, so it was fourth year Ravenclaws and Gryffindors in the morning to begin. 

He glanced at his desk as he dressed--he knew as usual that Dumbledore would insist upon giving him something, since the Headmaster knew his birthday. As well he knew most of Snape's history. There were two packages there, though, which he noted with some surprise. 

The first proved to be from Dumbledore, and he found it to be a new set of handmade crystal Potions flasks, treated with an Unbreakable Charm. He smiled briefly at that: the Headmaster knew him well enough to realize that he wasn't the sort to whom one gave frivolous gifts. 

He glanced at the tag on the second and was surprised to see that it was from Hermione. How had she found out? Probably asked him, he thought, caught between cheer and trepidation. He still wasn't sure where to classify her at times. They had moved beyond the confines of partnership since she had left Hogwarts; that he knew. There was complete trust and respect, and a certain ease in being with her: he might even have gone so far as to call her a good friend. He spoke freely around her, and he was still amazed at times that he could make her laugh, but wouldn't deny that time with her gave him distinct pleasure. And there was so little of pleasure in his life that it was one of the most fiercely precious things he had. 

He opened the package, and saw that the box was emblazoned with the Gladrags logo. _Oh, dear God. Don't tell me she got me Gryffindor red robes as a joke._

Over the years he had been given robes of different colors, usually as a joke. The most obnoxious had been a buttercup-yellow set that Lockhart, that prat, had given him, hearing it was his birthday. He shuddered to remember that Lockhart had suggested that the robes would cheer him up by the power of their sunny color. _Then again one might expect such weirdness and stupidity from a man who wore candy pink._ He still wasn't sure how Lockhart had been exempted from the black robes rule governing all inhabitants of Hogwarts. He had refused to even Transfigure the things, though, to black in order to wear them, and had altered them to fit Persephone, as they were Hufflepuff yellow. She had been quite happy with them on her birthday, and had worn them for various formal occasions since. 

But the robes that met his eyes were of a green so dark that it was nearly black. _Is she teasing?_ Puzzled, he grabbed the box and grabbed a pinch of Floo powder. She was in her rooms when he arrived. 

She saw the box in his hand and said without batting an eye, "Gladrags was all out of black, so I figured Slytherin green might do instead" She looked at his expression, or perhaps the stunned lack of it, and her face fell, a look of guilt coming across her features. "I--I can Transfigure them to black," she offered. "It's just that I figured you needed some because your old robes are so tatty from all your Potions work. Well, there was no black; damn, I should have changed them before I gave them to you." She realized she was babbling and quieted. 

He took a deep breath, relieved she hadn't intended the gift in mockery. Perhaps she knew him better than he thought for her to give him a practical gift like this. "They're fine, Hermione," he reassured. 

She smiled at him. "Happy birthday, Severus. Umm…feel free to turn them black if you like. I don't mind." 

He wasn't quite sure what to say. It was one of the few times in his life he felt dumbfounded. He settled for a, "Thank you." He returned to his room, still feeling a bit confused, but strangely pleased that she had noticed such a thing. After all, almost nobody afforded him a second glance. He gathered his things for the lesson and headed for the dungeons after hanging the robes in his closet, not quite ready to wear them yet.   


~~~~~~~~~

  
A month later, he shifted in his chair and rolled his eyes, wondering if it wasn't possible to create a simulacrum to attend staff meetings for him, particularly when the main topic of discussion was something so ludicrous as the winter dance in a few days. _Bloody damn Yule Ball. Last thing these idiot teenagers need. Come February Poppy will have more than a few crying girls in the infirmary pregnant._

He had never been fond of the things since his fifth year, when Sirius Black had made it all too clear at the Yule Ball where his place was and that he had best not step out of it. "Clean up and dress in nice robes, but you're still a slimy Slytherin, Snape…" Potter pointedly guiding Lily away: not that he had loved her. He had asked her to the ball as much simply because she was kind to him, and he admitted, to spite Potter, as anything. 

The words had stung to the core--they'd never think the leopard could change its spots, or that it may have not been spotted in the first place. Slytherin he'd always be to them, with all the connotations. He had stalked out, not wanting them to see the hurt of it, not wanting to see their happiness. Only too late he had learned that Aislinn had cared for him: she as quiet and lonesome as he had been. _Enough dwelling on the past._

So the Yule Ball was proceeding as planned, in the effort to keep things as normal as possible at Hogwarts for the children. He offered no objection to the decorations being silver and white for winter, or to the hiring of Wolfmoon Howling for the music. That resolved; he was grateful to trudge off to the dungeons for the evening, grumbling that he was obliged, as a teacher, to help decorate the Great Hall for the damned thing. He knew it was no use pleading to Dumbledore for exemption; the Headmaster would insist with a friendly twinkle in his eye. 

Still, the ball was tomorrow night. That done, he'd have another year before the thing came up again: three hundred sixty-four days of nothing of the sort. The thought was admittedly pleasant. 

While the students were off doing their normal Saturday activities the next afternoon, the staff began transforming the Great Hall into a ballroom for the festivities. Athol carefully guided a carved ice sculpture of the animals representing the four houses, the thing easily three times his size, to its place with _Wingardium Leviosa._ Minerva was Transfiguring various objects into crystalline dishes. 

He caught sight of Hermione at work with Mellisande Vector carefully covering the windows with delicate designs of frost, almost like stained glass windows. Aylmeri and Persephone were carefully hanging large ice prisms from the ceiling, leaving them to catch the light and cast dazzling rainbows on the walls. 

Feeling as usual stupidly out of place in such cheer and merriment, he was almost grateful when Dumbledore handed him some confiscated Acid Sweets and had him Transfigure them into white linen tablecloths embroidered in silver thread. Dumbledore smiled a little and said almost nonchalantly, "You always _were_ skilled in Transfiguration…" 

By the time it was two hours before the ball, the Great Hall was complete in its metamorphosis, and the teachers headed for their quarters to dress for the occasion. After showering, he nonchalantly reached into his closet and pulled out his black dress robes. _Nothing wrong with black._ He caught sight of the green robes Hermione had given him a month before and hesitated. 

Still, he wasn't about to change habit; he was altogether too much a creature of it. He shrugged and pulled on the clean black dress robes and closed the closet door, buttoning them up. _Have fun, Sev,_ Tosca called as she headed out the window. _I still say you should wear the green ones. She didn't give them to you to have them sit in the closet, she added sharply. Fine one for gratitude, you are._

"I don't need clothing advice from a _falcon_!" he returned, but the pang of guilt had struck home. He sat at his desk and began reading a Potions journal to pass the time. An hour and a half later, still cursing Tosca, he stuck his wand up his sleeve and headed out the door. 

He took his seat at the staff table, noticing with amusement that Persephone was indeed wearing the yellow robes again. He took his seat and noticed Hermione come in. She was dressed in robes of old gold that brought out the warm tones in her hair and eyes, making her look almost aglow, and following the lines of full feminine curves all too well. 

_You're sounding positively disgusting,_ he chastised himself. There was a slight sparkle about her though--a touch of faerie dust, probably. Hair tamed, she looked elegant. And the older male students certainly noticed--he saw their eyes upon her. Even Draco Malfoy, who walked into the Great Hall in his dark blue robes, took a second glance, and then a third. 

_Well, considering she's the only female teacher not old enough to be their mother, small wonder. And she was a student with some of them._ He shrugged to himself and turned to the fettuccini upon his plate as she sat beside him. 

"Evening, Severus," she murmured. 

"Good evening, Hermione." He turned to look at her. "You look well." 

She smiled a little, chewing her bottom lip for a moment in a habit he noticed she had, and replied, "Thanks." He caught her investigating his robes to see if possibly he had worn the green ones. 

"Hermione," he said quietly, making sure nobody else would overhear, "not that I don't appreciate them. It's just no use trying to change what I am." 

"I wasn't," she replied, "because Gladrags honestly was out of black. However, I'd gladly exchange them if you prefer? That is, if you haven't already Transfigured them?" Her lack of annoyance at it at once relieved him and made him feel even guiltier. 

He was saved from awkward reply by Dumbledore standing for announcements. With that he made certain to keep his mouth more or less full for the rest of the meal, precluding conversation. 

Wolfmoon Howling started to play as the tables were moved aside to clear a dance floor, and he noted most of the usual couples: Monk and Latterly, Lambourne and Eagleson, and the sort. He faintly heard Draco ask Hermione for a dance. 

She accepted, he saw, and within a minute they too were on the dance floor, a blur of color amongst the others, carefree and young. He felt a pang of something deep inside that he hadn't felt in years. With that he got to his feet and went outside to break up any trysts that the idiot students had contrived. 

Angrily blasting the foliage with his wand and flushing the lovebirds out, he was happily up to anywhere from ten to forty points off for the four houses when he was satisfied they had all been chased off. 

With that he heard a call behind him, and turned abruptly to see Hermione standing there, shivering slightly in the light material of her robes. "Why did you go rushing off?" 

"Business. Preventing," he allowed sarcasm to creep into his tone, "kisses stolen by moonlight, or worse." 

"Was it because I danced with Draco?" She advanced on him. "For Heaven's sake," her voice quivering with laughter, "he's only twenty-one…he just wanted to dance with a woman his own age, no offense to Mellisande, Minerva, and the rest. Why, are you jealous?" 

"No," he denied, but he remembered all too well the burning hot rush of the feeling from that Yule Ball long ago, Black's mocking implications that he'd _never_ be good enough for any woman, and the sheer envy for those who were so unabashedly happy that night. 

She put a hand on his shoulder, standing close to him and looking up into his eyes. "Would you care to dance?" 

"What, and let the entire school be chatting about 'Beauty and the Beast' for the next few months? I'd rather spare you that disgrace, thank you." But he made no try to move, to eliminate that small contact--it was too precious. 

"Severus, you're your own worst enemy," she said with a soft sigh. "I doubt anybody else sees you so darkly." 

"You might be surprised." 

"I'm not going to try and pull you out of your moping forever," her tone sharpening. 

"Then do leave me to it," he said roughly. "It is generally an activity best not shared." But the words struck him: was she implying what he thought she might be? He had lost Aislinn years ago because he had refused to see what had been right there before him. So he mustered his courage, and asked as calmly as he could, "What are you saying, Hermione…you're fond of me?" 

She looked at him, and looked ready to say something. He tensed, waiting. Any moment now would be the disbelieving laugh, the mocking reply. But she looked deadly serious--could it possibly be? "Severus," she began, meeting his gaze squarely. "I…" 

Just then there was a shout behind them. "Professor Snape! Professor Granger! Professor Dumbledore says there's a staff meeting _now_ in the conference room!" 

Immediately they were alert, the moment shattered. "What happened?" He recognized Hester Latterly. 

"Wi--William and I were talking, so I didn't see it all, but a Ministry owl came and gave the Headmaster a message," both she and Hermione walking quickly to keep up with Snape's stride. "He just turned pale and told the prefects to fetch all the teachers--only you two were gone by the time I left." 

"Damn," he hissed faintly. It was a situation with a Ministry owl and Dumbledore alarmed? It could be nothing but terrible news. They reached the conference room, careful not to run and cause more alarm amongst the students, but it took all his self-restrain not to race there to see what on Earth could be this urgent. 

Dumbledore looked up when the two of them stepped in, nobody even having the presence of mind to seemingly notice that they were indeed together and what it might have implied. "I have just received word from Logan Gwalch," the Vice-Minister of Magic, "that there has been an attack," he said gravely. 

"On…on whom?" Athol's tiny body was tense. 

Dumbledore's blue eyes searched them all before he said in a tone barely loud enough to hear, "The Weasleys." 


	9. Chapter Nine

It was a very quiet Christmas holiday. None of the usual noise and cheer from the many students who had stayed at Hogwarts could be heard in the corridors. This time, the danger was too much to ignore. Four of the Weasleys were dead; four of nine. Half a family decimated in a single cruel stroke. 

It was Molly who had found out first. She had Apparated to London to buy a few last minute things for Christmas gifts, and when she had returned, the house had been in ruins, and the Dark Mark floated lazily in the winter sky, mocking her with the cruel and undeniable knowledge of what had happened. 

Fred had been out with his girlfriend, Genevieve Delacroix. Ron had been called away earlier in the day to an Auror's assignment in Poland. Percy hadn't made it to the gathering because Penelope had gone into labor, and he had naturally insisted on being with his wife for the birth of their first child. Ginny had been detained helping a flurry of last-minute Christmas shoppers buying their child a magical pet in her shop. But the Weasley's tradition of family, of togetherness at the holidays, had left the lifeless bodies of Arthur, George, Bill, and Charlie to speak for it. 

Hermione sat now playing chess with a listless Ron in her room at Hogwarts. Following the attack, all the surviving Weasleys had been immediately taken into sanctuary at Hogwarts. There was no reason to suppose that the Death Eaters wouldn't try to make a clean sweep of the family of the defiant late Minister of Magic. 

"Queen to B7," Ron said, and his jasper queen marched diagonally across the board and gave Hermione's rose marble pawn a good solid right to the face. Hermione grimaced. Minerva had given her the set for her birthday, and she was still getting used to the pieces' quirks and pleading them to work with her. At least she was a better player than before--she and Snape played often, though he worked his obsidian set with more ruthlessness than she treated her pieces. 

"Have you seen your niece?" she queried softly, carefully removing the unconscious pawn and placing it beside the others he had captured. Ron truly was distracted--she was beating him soundly. "Bishop to C4. Check." 

Percy and Penelope's new daughter, Maria, had been born at Hogwarts. Mother, father, and baby were doing physically all right. All the Weasleys seemed to be understandably lifeless though; they were in profound shock. _Poor Fred,_ she thought sadly, remembering how he was almost never seen without George. _They always took so much delight in confusing us as to who they were. No more of that now._

Ron nodded, a ghost of a smile coming over his features. "She's beautiful. Mom's taken to her…" He trailed off, the unspoken thought of, _Because she's remembering when we were all newborns,_ as clear as a storm cloud in a gale. "How have you been, 'Mione?" he asked softly. "I hardly see you." 

"The war for you. I'm doing all right, though it hangs over my head a lot to get them ready to go out and fight. It's worse than being a student--there, if you make a mistake, it's only yourself that ends up--" She broke off, realizing that death and the war were not subjects he wanted to hear about at the moment. "I'm enjoying it very much," she concluded lamely. "It's a bit funny to be teaching the ones we went to school with, but it's good. How about you?" 

"Oh, the usual." His blue eyes studied her intently. "Hunting down Death Eaters, trying not to get killed." He looked down at his hands for a second. "It should have been me. I'm the damned Auror here: why George? All he did was run a joke shop. For God's sake! Bill was a money curse-breaker and Charlie worked with dragons. What did they do that they were such a danger to the Death Eaters?" He clenched his fists in anger. 

"Ron, they didn't do anything _wrong_. They're out to kill anyone they can," she protested. "They don't give a damn whether you're a toddler or the Minister of Magic." 

"Just unlucky, is it?" he said sharply. "Where the hell were the Ministry spies? They saved the MacKinnons, the Bealeses, the Gerards--_why not my family?_" 

The words cut through her like an icy blast, and the guilt of those they hadn't been able to save returned, gnawing at her heart. She felt some need to defend her actions, to say she was doing the damn best that she could, and that she regretted every single one that slipped through their fingers. But she couldn't; she had sworn to Snape and Dumbledore that she would tell nobody. A spy was only of use if secret, and no matter how good people's intents, Veritaserum would readily pry things out of them. So it was the fewer who knew about her spying, the better. 

"I'm sure they're doing the best they can," she said lamely. "I know that's cold comfort." Inside her mind was racing to try and remember any possible reference to an attack on the Weasleys, however subtle. There had been that statement about going after "larger prey", but there had been so many possibilities of important magical figures all across Europe. It was as though Voldemort had said he'd kill one person in Whitechapel: impossible to know whom. 

The Weasleys made sense, in retrospect. After all, he had been the Minister of Magic, and with it being Christmas, the Weasley family would be gathered together. It was the perfect time for a massacre. She looked at Ron with pity. Logan Gwalch, the new Minister of Magic, had seen that the Weasley family had been properly buried. None of the Weasleys had been permitted to attend for fear of another attack by Death Eaters trying to finish the job. After all, as Ron pointed out, _he_ was the Auror and thus still a threat. 

"Maybe," he sighed. "Knight to C4." With that he stayed largely silent, seeming grateful just for her mere presence as they played on. They chatted of idle things, she noticing that he was wearing the annual Weasley sweater that he usually disdained with something close to pride now. 

Work as an Auror had definitely matured him, given him a sort of gravity and self-confidence. He was far from the boy who could change into a whining prat at a moment's notice. "Have you heard from Harry lately?" 

She gave him a wry smile. "He sent me a book on accomplishments of Muggle-borns in the magical world for my birthday, saying he bet I'd be in the next edition." It was a thoughtful gift like she'd been used to from him in previous years. "I'm not quite sure why he insisted upon tucking two tickets to the Cardiff Dragons inside. No, I haven't physically _seen_ him since summer in between my two years at Lothlorien. I was so busy with studies, and he with Quidditch." 

"Mm," he agreed. "He's changed," he said sadly. "I think when Voldemort came back, you know--" 

"You're using his name?" He never had before. 

"He killed my family, 'Mione. I'm not going to pansy around it by calling him You-Know-Who. That gives him fear and respect, which he isn't getting from me." He resumed his former thought. "When Voldemort came back, I think we all expected him to get through Hogwarts and then immediately march on him to vanquish him, yet again. That's damn heavy to carry on your shoulders at sixteen--to be the salvation of an entire world? Maybe he just wanted to be normal again, to be a kid. Not that it excuses it…maybe if he had stepped up to fight the war would be over. But I think I can at least _understand_ it. He's as human as you and I, much as we like to think he's something more." It was largely what Snape had said, actually, she recalled. 

Two more moves and it was in checkmate; his tiny king bowing his head respectfully to her and leading what remained of his army from the board to Ron. Her pieces were chortling in triumph as she guided them back to the slots of their leather case.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Harry arrived after dinner on Christmas Day, a day after the Weasleys arrived. Predictably, Dumbledore called a council of the teachers to hear what the formerly absent knight for the Light had to say. There were whispers going up and down the corridors as she strode towards the conference room. "Harry Potter's back!" 

She was surprised to see the pitiful remnants of the Weasley clan there as well, extra chairs crammed around the table. She took a seat by the fire, grateful for its warmth. The doors clattered shut with protest and they looked up to see Snape striding towards the table, obviously in haste. "My condolences," he said quietly to Molly Weasley. She nodded slightly, and Hermione caught the slight look of guilt in his eyes as well when they met hers. Both of them were wondering if they had missed something vital. 

Then she turned to see Harry. He sat there in a simple pair of dark grey robes, eyeing all of them a bit nervously, a slight flush in his cheeks. He looked like a penitent little boy about to be punished, realizing with dread just what he had done. 

Dumbledore cast a _Mustelicas_ Charm. Wisps of brownish smoke began whirling into every nook and cranny of the room. The Ferreting Out Charm served to explore a particular chamber for any sort of spying devices or suspicious magic not bearing the hallmark of its caster. If there were anything detected, it would emit a loud hiss and turn a bright blue. It did so around Minerva. "I lit the fire with _Incendio_," she explained, as Dumbledore nodded and Banished the smoke. The room was clear. 

Once everything calmed, Harry spoke up, tentatively at first. "I--I'm sorry that I ran. Ron…" He looked at his old friend. "If I had…" His voice failed him, cracking with grief. The Weasleys had been like family to him, after all. Molly Weasley put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. _He's human too,_ she thought. _And if they can forgive him, we all can._

There were still eyes faintly gleaming with resentment at what could have been seen as Harry's desertion, but the blame was put aside in pursuit of a far more important goal: the fight against Voldemort. For that, grudge was put aside and they were united under a common banner. The past was gone and could not be helped: they had to look forward to a dark and uncertain future first. 

"Never mind that," Ron told him quietly. "It's…it's done, Harry. All we can do," his voice taking on an edge of steel, "is move forward. And fight." 

Harry nodded in relief, wiping his glasses off on his robes. "I'm ready to do what I have to." His determination was not open to doubt. He looked at all of them earnestly. 

"Tell me what I need to do," Molly spoke up next, her voice quiet but with a distinct edge: the anger of a mother whose children had been attacked. "I'm not going to stand by." 

"We are doing much of what we can," Dumbledore said, obviously apologetic. "We have spies helping to eliminate the Death Eaters one by one--you know that, Ron," his gaze sliding over herself and Snape with minimal pause. "And other spies working to get to the intended victims before the Death Eaters may. Still, there is much to be done." 

"We're doing nothing," Percy protested, handing a peacefully sleeping Maria to Penelope, "sitting here waiting to be attacked!" There was ire in his eyes that she didn't remember from his days as perfect, bookish Head Boy. 

"What would you do?" Persephone asked. "Declare outright war?" 

"Yes!" Fred spoke up. "We're all sitting ducks, damn it! We've been sitting and trying to ignore all of it through Fudge's time, and Dad was just starting to turn it around. I'm not going to let that work go to waste while Gwalch pansies around." 

"We have," Draco spoke up, "from the time of the Dark Lord's return, killed twenty Death Eaters, directly or indirectly. But there are still many more all across Europe, and the Dementors, the vampires, the ghouls, the _Bann Sidhe_…" 

"We can't just wait for him to pick us off one by one," Harry agreed. "People die in wars. Muggles know that all too well. Whether you're a fighter or a bystander, you might die. I think it a far, far better thing to die on our feet rather than live on our knees." 

"It can't just be a mass attack," she added quickly. "We'll have to go at it by and large as we have--undermining them, spying and saving their intended victims, setting up ambushes, causing them to divide themselves. Until the magical world is united and ready to make a stand against Voldemort, we don't stand a chance in open combat." 

A resounding approval went around the table. "You do realize," Snape said tone serious in the first words he had said at this council, "that we will be working outside Ministry jurisdiction. If the Ministry catches us, Gwalch will not be kindly inclined to rebels in a time of war going outside official orders. If the Death Eaters catch us, be assured we your return will not be bargained for." 

"The Ministry," Ginny said with nearly tangible loathing, "didn't do anything to protect Dad. They told him to handle it himself--he was the head of it all. If we're rebels, so be it." 

In short order, it was agreed that the long-awaited but hesitant step to break free from the defunct and paralyzed Ministry was to be taken and loyalties sworn to the cause under the effects of a Truth Spell. They all stared at each other as if in disbelief over the step they were taking. It was the crossing of the Rubicon, all bridges burned behind them. 

They filed out of the room almost in disbelief, heading for their rooms. Hermione shook her head as if in a daze when Harold Lowe asked her what the homework over the holidays had been for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Poor lad was brilliant, but absentminded with little things like that. She couldn't seem to form a coherent reply to something so small right at the moment, managing only a, "Tomorrow, Mister Lowe," through a dry mouth. 

She was aware of Snape walking beside her a few moments later. "I'm sorry for Weasley's family," he murmured softly, the two of them stepping aside into an alcove. "I know you cared for them." Molly and Arthur Weasley had become like her mother and father for the magical world and the Weasleys like the siblings she had never had--underneath her robes she wore a Weasley sweater of heathery wool that she had gotten last Christmas at Baker Street. 

"Thank you, Severus," she said softly, realizing numbly that he knew all too well how it felt to lose family--both his parents had died when he was twenty, even younger than she was now. 

She remembered his question at the Yule Ball if she loved him, and how close she had come to saying that it was quite possible that she did. But now was not the time, or place, for romance. It was war now, and when even tomorrow was a dim and uncertain shore that might possibly never be reached; she didn't want to hurt or be hurt by loving only to possibly have one of them die. Still, in her heart and her head, she knew it to be true. She _was_ fond of him. 

Before she could say anything further, he murmured softly, "Good night, Hermione," gently taking her hand for a moment and squeezing it, the pressure of his fingers like a lifeline, and then fading away into the darkness. She listened until the dim echoes of his footsteps on the flagstones faded away, and then went towards her own room. She would sleep uneasily tonight. 


	10. Chapter Ten

New Year's came and went, largely silent and cheerless. Snape remembered the revelry of previous years, much as he had been disgusted by it then. He almost wished for it now--even that was preferable to the terrified pall of gloom over Hogwarts now. Everybody, from Dumbledore down to the first years, knew precisely what was going on outside the castle walls. With the Weasley massacre, there could be no more hiding. 

They were working the students and themselves even more mercilessly, realizing that they were headed for a clash with the Dark Lord himself, and its prospect was not comfortably distant in the future. Poppy had him constantly brewing Dreamless Sleep, Lionheart, and Calming Potions. It was now Valentine's Day and every seventh year had been in the infirmary at least once since New Year for some treatment or another for breaking under the strain of the burden placed upon them, and the knowledge that they would be in the thick of the war in just a few short months. Never before had there been such a horrific expectation placed upon such young shoulders: not even during Voldemort's first rise. 

Their somewhat guerilla-like tactics had accounted for four more Death Eaters this year so far, though they were all merely in the ranks of Death Eaters. Draco and Ron were furiously at work on the Lestranges and Lucius, and Percy Weasley had begun to take a role similar to Draco's with Mad-Eye Moody to snare Voldemort's top man, Wormtail. "Since," he had said with an ironic tone, "I know him, in a way. I owned the man as Scabbers, after all." 

However, word of their resistance had apparently reached Logan Gwalch's ears at the Ministry. He had positively _demanded_ that Dumbledore come and account for the actions of those at Hogwarts. He wasn't too worried--Dumbledore, for all his being Sorted into Gryffindor, had developed quite a devious streak over the years and could quite easily confound the Ministry. 

He and Hermione were at work in the staff room on some new Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons based upon observations from their spying forays. She looked at him, bleary smudges of exhaustion obvious under her eyes, and he knew he looked the same. They all did. At this pace, they might not have to worry about Voldemort. They'd kill themselves with exhaustion and stress. 

"Not a very romantic Valentine's, is it?" she asked calmly, looking up from furiously scribbling notes, giving him a ghost of a smile. "I seem to recall back in the day when you'd catch couples sneaking kisses in the corridors and alcoves and take points left and right on this day." 

He gave her a slight smile. "I seem to recall you referring to it as a 'damned wretched holiday' once." He remembered finding her huddled by the suit of armor all too well. So long ago, it seemed. They had all changed so much since then. 

"You actually remember that?" she groaned. "You never _did_ tell me why you covered for me. I always did wonder." _Why a dark-hearted bastard would help you? Of course you'd wonder._

"Because," he said shortly, "Sirius Black did the same to me when I was at school." 

She looked at him without pity, which he would have resented anyhow. But there was the beauty of empathy and understanding in her eyes, which had a sweetness that still amazed him. "I see." With that, she left it as was, which was the wisest thing she could have done. 

"It's so strange," she spoke a few minutes later. "It's so different from even just a few years ago, Severus. Last week at the Quidditch game nobody seemed to care, not even the players. Nobody cared about the holidays, or house points. I--I know things like that are trivial in the face of what's out there, but for God's sake. They're children, and we're forcing the burden of an adult and more on them, even the youngest ones." 

"I haven't had to take points in three weeks," he said quietly. "They're all so frightened that it doesn't even occur to them to misbehave, and they treat every answer in class as though it could be the key to saving their life and are all too eager to learn it." 

"It could save their lives," she agreed, "but…this may sound a little mawkish, I know. The heart's still beating, but it's like the very soul of Hogwarts has fled, and we're just a mere shade of what we're meant to be. You see nothing of what should be here. There's none of the games, the laughter, the scuffles, the thinking that a romantic breakup is the end of the world. There's life to us: we're breathing, Severus, we're still moving, thinking, speaking. But are we really _alive_ right now, or just existing?" 

"That," he said wearily, "answers itself quite neatly. I believe that's why one of the Yanks had a general who said that war is hell." 

"Sherman," she replied. "How do you know Muggle history?" she inquired, glancing up at him, brown eyes guileless. 

As usual, when she inquired about his past, he neatly diverted the conversation. He wasn't quite ready to tell her about his entire past. He was sure she, of all people, wouldn't hold his nationality or his Muggle birth against him, but he still wasn't sure if he wanted to reveal how he had sold himself, everything he was, in fruitless attempts to try to fit in. Changed his name and history to fit into Slytherin, changed his attitude and beliefs to become a Death Eater. His entire history had been that of a chameleon, always altering his colors, and to a Gryffindor such as her, to whom truth to one's self was paramount; he was still a little too shy of ruining her regard for him by revealing all. "Oh, I learn things here and there," he shrugged. 

He found his eyes lingering upon her, wondering if perhaps given the chance, she would have said at Christmas that she _did_ care for him. He knew deep in his heart that he had no right to love her, to have her love him in return, in a time such as this when either of them could die so easily and leave the other bereft. It was the opening of a much bigger vulnerability than the trust of love itself, and one he was not willing to subject her to right now. He cared far too much for her to have her run that risk. Before the Weasley attacks, it had been different: the crisis of the war had still seemed quite far away. 

Anyhow, he had taken the first step and asked. The next step, if ever there was to be one, had to made by her. He was almost certain that she had been ready that night to say, "Yes". But now there was nothing to be done by him pushing the issue; it was worse than worthless if it wasn't her desire. But the most foolish seed of hope had crept into his heart and taken root there; he dared dream of a possible future for them after the war. 

Minerva came in just about then and sat down on the sofa, looking exhausted, Murdoch jumping up beside her and laying his muzzle on her knee. _Dinnae fash, lass,_ he said consolingly. _Ye've done a fine job this year with them. Come what may, ye can be proud._ He smiled a little in spite of himself. 

They heard her faintly murmur, "Thank you," and idly pet him. She still didn't know about their Animagus abilities or spying--Dumbledore intended to inform her himself soon, as she was his right hand in the resistance and thus needed to be privy to such things in case of the worst. 

Hermione resumed work on the next week's lesson plan, the teachers having completely abandoned their planned syllabi since the events of Christmas and making up their lessons to fit the new situation. He turned himself to pondering whether it was of more use to teach them the Wound Healing Potion or the _Draig Galon_ next week. 

Draco came in, teeth chattering and cheeks reddened from caring for the animals outdoors in the stable, and gratefully drinking a hot mug of coffee. He handed his dripping cloak and Slytherin scarf to the coat stand that had shuffled over towards him and extended wooden limbs to take the proffered items. It them shuffled back towards the fire and stayed there to let his things dry. 

The Weasleys and Harry had applied themselves to helping out however they could at Hogwarts, often adding help by helping see to the multitude of students' well-being while the teachers were wracking their brains trying to cram every bit of helpful information into a lesson plan. Snape could sense Harry's embarrassment that it was Hermione and not his own self that was teaching in Defense Against the Dark Arts. The truth was, though, that Harry hadn't encountered the Dark since his days at school, and she had, and with much greater regularity than he had as well. Still, it was a bit uncomfortable that their principle warrior, as it were, was in the backseat. Harry accepted it with grace, though, which surprised him a little. 

As evening shadows began to fall, they heard a commotion outside by the front doors of Hogwarts, a shouting and pounding on the doors. Minerva looked puzzled and went to the window overlooking the entrance and leaned down. 

"Who is that?" she called. He couldn't make out the reply, but obviously he was approved, for she sent Draco to show him up to the staff room. 

"Who was it?" Hermione asked, rising to her feet. Minerva shook her head, seeming unable to speak. He remembered that look on a thousand other faces and dreaded what he sensed was coming. 

It was only a minute before Draco came back, and on his heels was a young man that he recognized as former Hufflepuff Jacob Rhys, who had graduated a year ahead of Hermione. He was dressed in the official white robes of the Ministry, and stood before the fire dripping. He muttered a Drying Charm and turned to them, eyes wide and frightened. "I've come from London. I…I'm afraid I have bad news. Headmaster Dumbledore has been killed." 


	11. Chapter Eleven

The entire staff was assembled, and they listened numbly as Rhys explained in a trembling voice what had happened. Hermione could still barely comprehend it. There had to be a spy somewhere in the Ministry who had informed Voldemort that Dumbledore would be leaving the safety of Hogwarts to appeal before the council. It was an opportunity the Dark Lord had not passed up. 

There was only one eyewitness, a clerk in the Department of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, he relayed. As she had glanced out her window overlooking the entrance, she had seen a wizard Apparate into the courtyard. People actually coming to the Ministry were a curiosity by then: many magical folk were too afraid to venture outside their homes, and of course the blissfully unaware Muggles could never find their way to the Ministry. Being a Hogwarts graduate herself, she recognized her old Headmaster readily. 

Her shouts of warning could never reach him through the window as she saw three figures Apparate behind him. One was tall and skeletally lean in form, his white face like a living skull and large eyes burning a demonic red. The other two had been clad in robes of dull black, hooded and masked. The serpent-man, whom she figured in a flash of horror to be Voldemort, raised his wand towards the old man's unguarded back. Voldemort called something, and as Dumbledore turned, blue fire shot from the end of the wand and enveloped him. She recognized the _Immolio_ Curse. Then the attackers had Apparated away. 

When she alerted everybody, they went to see. They found only a twisted pair of spectacles, their glass gone and the frames warped by the flames. _Immolio_ could not consume metal, which was why its use was rare. The wizard, if prepared, could create a metal shield to protect himself. But Dumbledore had never had the chance. Carefully Rhys handed Minerva the spectacles, and Hermione saw the old woman flinch. 

_Why didn't he just rely on the Killing Curse?_ she thought numbly, mind still working to accept it. _Why immolate him?_ The perverse answer came to mind only a few seconds later. _Because we have no body to bury, nothing to mourn over properly._ It was a cruel twist of the knife; Voldemort hadn't even accorded Dumbledore the respect of proper burial as he had to most others. 

Minerva straightened her spine, but her eyes were weighted down by sorrow. "Thank you, Mister Rhys," she said softly; obviously just realizing that now, she was Headmistress of Hogwarts. "Is the young lady all right?" 

"We put her under Veritaserum to make certain it was true," Rhys said, eyes downcast. "I'm not sure how she is--I left before it wore off." Minerva nodded and showed him to the door. She turned back to them and studied them all. Mixed with the grief and sorrow was the anger at the Ministry for causing this. 

"I think," she said, each word carrying heavy weight, "we have to break this to the students in the morning. I am going to my room now and will think upon where we are to go from here. I suggest that all of you do what you must for the night." There were quiet murmurs of assent all hands round. 

She found herself walking with Snape, to who knew where. To look on his face was to see a man plunged into a nightmare. It was as if he was in a trance, his entire body tight, and his eyes blank. She knew how he had cared for Dumbledore, and almost wished that he could break down, would weep and let it out. This robotic-like state worried her. 

Just as they reached his room, she put her hand on his shoulder. "Severus, I'm here if you…you want to talk at all," she offered softly. 

"No, thank you," came the flat reply. He opened the door and slipped inside. She sighed, heart weighted down with sorrow for herself, for Albus Dumbledore, for the children, and for Snape himself. He had said to her that Dumbledore had been like a father to him; that he was the only one who saw something worth saving in him. The only man who had possessed faith during Snape's darkest hour was now gone; it was as if his lighthouse had just been darkened and he was aimlessly adrift. 

She hardly got more than ten steps before she heard the door open and him calling to her. But when she got to his rooms, she saw that he was clutching his forearm grimly. She knew what that meant all too well. "We're going," he said. 

"Severus, it's not…" she protested. _Not safe for us to go with you in this state,_ she finished silently. There was the possibility that Voldemort would send a killing crew tonight, but in a bit of ruthless thought, she thought that it would be far worse were he to be lost. Tosca was protesting and asking what was wrong, but they both ignored her. 

"I," he said, looking at her with steely determination, "am going. I do not care if it is with or without you. I have my duty and I will do it." With that he transformed and headed out the window. 

She weighed it for a split second and decided that he couldn't be out on his own in such an unbalanced state. Perhaps, though, duty was the only thing keeping him from breaking at the minute. She just hoped he wouldn't do anything foolish such as to challenge Voldemort to a wizard's duel. It was far better to go along with him. She transformed and took flight after him. 

They were at the Malfoy Manor again quite shortly, the route so thoughtless by now as to almost be instinct. They were meeting in the gardens, despite the snow and cold. She thought that perhaps Voldemort enjoyed making his Death Eaters squirm with discomfort at times, both physical and mental. 

With surprise, she saw that it was only Lucius, Wormtail, and Voldemort. The general and his top lieutenants, as it were, of the army of Darkness. Snape settled down beside her, silent. A light snow began to fall, so she fluffed her feathers for warmth and stared at the three figures down in the garden. 

"No doubt you have heard of the rumor that has come to me. There are rebels at Hogwarts, who mean to stand against me. Haverforth from the Ministry has told me this." 

"A pathetic bunch of children?" Lucius said in a scornful tone. "Hardly worth your concern, my Lord." 

"Still, Dumbledore," Voldemort continued, "was a worry. Now that the old fool is dead, things are beginning to fall into place. We must make our plans, and that is why I have called you here tonight." 

"But it was done excellently, my Lord," came Lucius' smooth purr. "He was a great obstacle." 

"None so great that Lord Voldemort could not overcome him," Wormtail added quickly. Obviously the two of them had been the Death Eaters accompanying Voldemort that afternoon to London. 

Lucius let out a cruel laugh. "Considering how he just walked right into it, one wonders why he was thought such a danger." 

"Stupid old man," Wormtail agreed. "I thought he was much more cunning." She was suddenly aware of the branch trembling next to her, and turned her head a little to see that the outlines of his form were blurry and unfocused. In horror she realized what was happening. Control _lessened_ the risk of extreme emotion transforming one back into their human form, but it never eliminated it. _Severus!_ she hissed. _For God's sake, pull yourself together. We're leaving, now!_

The next few seconds etched themselves in her mind, moving as if in slow motion. Lucius furrowed his brow and looked at the shaking tree, there being not even a breath of wind to cause the disturbance. "What's there?" He drew his wand and shouted, "_Impedimentia!_" His aim was lucky. He hit Snape with the Stun. He fell from the tree and hit the snow in his human form, lying there horrifically still. 

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," Lucius said. Crouching, he withdrew Snape's wand from up his sleeve, and touching his own wand to Snape's forehead as she sat there, mind racing frantically as she considered what to do. "_Enervate!_" His eyes opened and stared straight into Lucius', still obviously dazed. "Hullo, Severus. Long time, no see." Lucius smirked. 

She sat there, frozen in horror. She knew what he had told her to do if anything like this should ever happen. _Run like hell. Get away._ But she couldn't just abandon him, not if there was the slightest chance. Not only because he was her partner, but even more because she loved him. She'd never forgive herself for fleeing. 

Decision made, she took a deep breath and waited until they were distracted with Snape and they had their backs to her. She pushed off from the tree, transforming as she let herself fall, and reaching into her robes for her wand. She saw his eyes widen and before he could help himself, he had cried out, "No!" 

The words were on her lips. _Avada Kedavra. Kill them; it's self-defense!_ Something made her hesitate for a split-second; perhaps the fact that she had never taken a life and could never do it lightly. Whatever the reason, it was just long enough for Wormtail to disarm and then Stun her. 

A minute or an hour later, she woke at the _Enervate_ to find herself lying down, dimly aware of the cold trickle of snow into her robes and snowflakes falling on her face. She couldn't move; they had put a Body-Bind on her. Voldemort stood over them, eyeing them and smiling his cruel, lipless smile. "A pair of spies, I see." His gaze turned to the spot beside her, where Severus apparently lay. "You were once among my ranks," he said softly. "You know the price." 

"Let her go," he pleaded softly. "I seduced her, twisted her mind to my purposes, influenced her to this. It's not her doing." She was surprised to hear him speak: obviously they didn't have him a Body-Bind as they did her. 

"Oh, Severus," as if speaking to a recalcitrant child, "you never did have tastes for such games. I do not expect you have developed them in ensuing years." The fire-red eyes turned on her again. "Besides, I doubt a Gryffindor needs much encouragement to risk their stupid neck." 

"I will pay the price," he insisted. "But let her go." 

"She is a spy, and she will suffer your fate as well." There was finality to the proclamation. Voldemort turned away to Lucius. "It is late to call an assembly of the ranks. But they should see the example these two will be." 

"Tomorrow night," Lucius agreed readily. "My Lord, might I--" 

"You will have your chance to gain recompense for your traitor son tomorrow," the Dark Lord replied curtly. He reached up his sleeve and withdrew their wands. He studied them for a moment, then carefully lifted hers and deliberately broke it in half. She felt suddenly as though energy had been drained from her; perhaps it had, as the wand was needed to focus and intensify magic. He then snapped Snape's wand and carelessly destroyed the pieces of both with _Incendio_. "I believe you have guest quarters for the night for these two?" asked Lucius with a demonic smile. 

Using _Mobilicorpus_, Wormtail lifted her, and followed Lucius levitating Snape. She saw now that heavy cords about his arms and legs bound him--it was the same spell he had used in the Shrieking Shack in her third year. Apparently it had pleased Voldemort in some sick fashion to leave Snape the ability to plead for his life or hers. Into the bowels on the mansion they went, down into the dark, terrifying depths of the dungeon. She remembered Nott's execution all too well right then. 

Lucius swung open a heavy oak door to one of the cells, the thing almost as thick as the width of her hand. She drifted slowly into the small cell. She was set down none too gently, and heard Snape falling to the flagstone nearby. She felt the slime of the flagstone beneath her hands, and the chilly air inside the cell. 

"_Lumos!_" said, and the light hurt her eyes for a moment as he focused in on her, locating her. "All right, unbind them, Lucius." There was a note of unholy amusement in his voice. "Let them try and get out if they please." 

In quick succession, she and Snape were unbound from their respective spells, and Lucius began to close the door. He didn't leave without the parting words of, "Sweet dreams. Until tomorrow evening!" Then the door slammed shut and all was darkness. Her senses immediately rebelled at the terror of it, and she knew at that moment that all was truly lost. Somehow she was too numb even to weep at it. 


	12. Chapter Twelve

The door shut behind them as Lucius exited, quickly drowning out any light in the small cell. He could hear Hermione's breathing intensify as the darkness seemed almost suffocating--he only withstood it because he had done so for a month in Azkaban, years and years ago. _Think of something, anything, or you'll go mad. Asphodel and wormwood, added together with lily-of-the-valley produces the Snow White Potion. Dip an apple in it and it produces a living death, with the victim perfectly preserved. Developed by Princess Alenthe of Saxeburg and used on her stepdaughter, Rhiannon in 1308. No, don't think about death._

"S--Severus?" he heard her say softly, her voice quavering. "Where are you?" 

"Here," he said softly, but feeling unable to move, unable to comprehend what had just happened. All the careful years of self-preservation, of diligence and training, had been somehow tossed away in an instant. It wrenched his heart almost beyond bearing, though, that his mistake would not only cost him--it would now cost Hermione as well. 

He had let Dumbledore down as well. True, the old man had angered him now and again, let _him_ down in turn, or favored his beloved Gryffindors at all costs. The old wound of the Shrieking Shack still rankled at times. He had his faults. After all, Albus Dumbledore had been born human just like the rest and thus was subject to humanity's failings and petty stupidities. When it had really been crucial, though, Dumbledore had been there to help. The old wizard had saved him from Azkaban, trusted him years ago to spy, to help the fight against Voldemort. For a moment he was glad that Dumbledore wasn't alive to see this. 

He still wasn't certain what had happened. All he knew was that when Lucius and Wormtail had begun mocking the lack of fight Dumbledore had put up, mocking the old man who had been the only person on Earth to care for him when he was all but unlovable, that grief and rage had swelled within him to an intensity he hadn't felt since Aislinn had been killed. That had resulted in his turn to Dumbledore so many years before. The next thing he knew, he was in human form on the ground and at wandpoint, and that Hermione in typical Gryffindor foolishness, had tried to save him and been captured as well, even as he shouted for her to run. 

His cheeks burned hot in shame, and then he felt her searching hand gently touch his shoulder. "It's cold," she murmured near his ear. 

He sighed. "I've no cloak to offer you, I'm afraid, so please forgive my lack of gentlemanly manners." 

"Just let me…" She slipped under his arm and curled up close, putting her arms around him. "Why aren't they killing us here and now?" she said quietly, he feeling her warm breath against his neck, and unconsciously holding her closer. Perhaps he didn't deserve it after what he had just done, but the solid reality of another person's presence was a comfort he couldn't deny himself right at the moment. 

"Because he'll want to call a full meeting of the Death Eaters tomorrow night to have us made example of. And he wants us to have the time to die a thousand deaths in our minds before he actually does it," he said bluntly, figuring he owed her nothing less than the honest truth. They would die tomorrow at dusk. Any other hurts paled beside that simple and hard fact. 

"Oh." She sighed quietly. "I see." She shifted slightly. 

"I'm sorry," he found himself saying, his voice cracking painfully. The floodgates of emotion seemed to still be open. Poor little use trying to regain his composure right now--the Death Eaters wouldn't care how he acted during this night, and Hermione had seen him at his worst before. "This is all my fault, Hermione…" 

"Severus," her voice gentle, "it happens. People make mistakes." 

"Not like this," he said through clenched teeth. 

"For God's sake," she said a bit more harshly in answer, "you can mourn him. Why do you feel you can't?" 

"Because it brings on this!" he cried. "Twenty years of work brought down because I lost control for a moment." He added after a moment into the silence, very softly, "Because I've killed you along with myself." 

"I could have left you. I chose not to. Give me the dignity of that--I _chose_ it." 

"Very well, we both made mistakes tonight," he smiled humorlessly. 

"It's done," she said, reaching down and taking his hand in hers. "All we can do is…wait. And die well," she said softly. 

"Very Gryffindor of you." He resorted to sarcasm for a moment as armor. 

"I'd hardly expect _you_ to die on your knees." 

"I won't," he said frankly. "I won't give them that satisfaction." Some part of him was glad that she wasn't saying confidently that Potter would save them, that Aurors would save them, any wild and false hope just to have one. If she had started believing such things, he might have himself. It was a far better thing to face reality. 

He was aware of how cold her hand was, and that she was shivering in the February cold seeping in through the stones of the dungeon. Carefully he pushed her back for a moment, unbuttoning his robes, and drawing them around her when she settled back against his chest. "Does that help?" 

"Yes. Don't regret it, though. Think of all we did, the lives we saved…and I'd rather die tomorrow than live two hundred years as boring, bookish Hermione Granger. We aren't dying for nothing." She tugged on the edge of his robe for a second. "You're lucky you wear these robes so loose, you know. I set you on fire first year--if you wore them close-fitting you'd have been burned yourself." 

He recalled the Quidditch match where he had saved Potter from Quirrell's curse, and how his robes had suddenly caught fire. He had always wondered who had done it. He realized that she was admitting things she'd never admit without knowing they'd be carried to the grave, and talking as much to hear her own voice and not go mad in the silence and darkness as for any real conversation. 

"We thought it was you trying to kill Harry. So I used an _Incendio_. They weren't your favorite robes, were they?" She let out a forced laugh, unable to hide the nervous quiver in it. 

"No, Hermione, they were not," he said wearily. "Do you think perhaps…that we should try to sleep? There's poor little point in staying awake all night worrying. Nothing will change," he said reasonably, certain he could say such things around her and not have her dissolve into hysterics. 

Something in him--perhaps the black and cold heart everybody thought he had--seemed to break for a moment. For a life he'd never have with her, a life he had been beginning to dream possible, once he was fairly certain she did indeed feel something for him. Visions of a simple life, and of love. He sighed softly at that. _Some things are just never meant to be._

He was aware of her muttering, "Not sleep just yet," and her hands at the collar of his shirt, fumbling to unbutton it. 

"What do you think…" he protested, finding her hand in the dark and staying it. 

She cleared her throat a bit nervously. "You and I both know what they do to--to female captives. I'm not naïve enough to think they won't do the same to me. I'd prefer that I had…well, that I had something else to think of," her voice trailed off for a moment, "while enduring the other. So, would you, please…" 

Part of him wanted to laugh, and part could have cried. A woman wanted him. And it was circumstances even beyond shabby. It was the farthest from the comforts and care she deserved for such a thing as it could be. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was speechless. 

"Don't you dare say I'll regret it," she said with an almost-nervous laugh. "There's no _time_ for me to regret it." He wondered for a moment if she truly wanted him, or just wanted the comfort of any man right now. _It's a fine distinction not worth making. After all, as she says, you won't live to regret it._ "Won't you say something? Even 'Oh, get to hell?' or the like?" 

"I…" He still was at a loss for words, dumbfounded by the very idea. 

"After all, you've done this before…although I admit the setting leaves something to be desired, but what difference am I from any other?" she said, making an obvious effort to be calm and convincing. 

"No, I haven't," he said brusquely. 

"What?" 

"I wouldn't use force for it like my fellow Death Eaters, and…Hermione, who would have willingly had _this_?" He gestured vehemently at himself, realizing stupidly that she couldn't see it. She seemed to catch the point of the matter anyhow. 

He heard a faint but decisive murmur of, "I will," her hand coming up to caress his cheek. The more he considered, he found any will or words to refuse her fading rapidly. He was almost shocked at the sheer nerve she was showing in the face of obvious degradation and death. But he shouldn't have been. He'd always known she was courageous, and almost reckless. Perhaps there was something to be said for a Gryffindor's courage. "You asked if I care for you. I think you know by now that I do." 

"You know, I'd have married you, if you'd have had me," he said, shocked that he admitted it. "I wanted to tell you, but…"_I lost my courage. I thought that I had no right to love you and leave you to grieve if I were to be killed._

"I'd have accepted, Severus, even if it was only to be for a short time. It _is_ a short time," she went on. "But we could still," she carefully found his hand again. "Suppose it would make this not sin," she said with dark humor. "If you'll have me?" He brushed his fingertips over her cheek, her hair, in reply, regrets again flooding his mind. Still, there was something to be said for the comfort of this, if only till tomorrow night: the assurance that they would not die alone. 

Though he couldn't see her, a calm came over him as he cleared his throat and spoke the words binding them together for what few hours were left of their lives. No one there to marry them, but God would understand. "I, Severus Alexander Snape, do take thee, Hermione…" he faltered, realizing stupidly that he didn't know her middle name. So much in the way of the trivial, sweet little things he'd never have the chance to discover. 

"Marie. After Marie Curie. My parents were very scientifically inclined." With that, he nodded to himself and tightened his grip on her hand, steadying his voice. 

"Hermione Marie Granger, to be my wife. With all my possessions I thee endow, with my body I thee worship," his breath caught slightly at that, "in well or ill, riches or poverty, until…until our life shall be done." He barely spoke the last words, tinged with sorrow. 

She spoke with great deliberation then. "I, Hermione Marie Granger, do take thee, Severus Alexander Snape," her voice scarcely louder than the beating of his own heart in his ears, but still he heard every word as she spoke the ancient vows, fixing them in his heart and mind, until she too reached the almost bitterly ironic final words. "Until our life shall be done." 

A moment's silence, and he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it where her wedding ring should have rested. Then blindly, he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips, a little embarrassed at his ineptness due to darkness and inexperience. But none of that mattered right now. She was his wife, and she loved him: two things that he had never dared dream. 

All thoughts of grief and guilt slowly faded; all realization of pending death fled. It was still there, but its hurt for the moment was petty and its menace featureless. All he was left with was the reality of Hermione in his arms, even if it would be for the last time. His mind was still rather sternly telling him that all of this was insane and foolish. 

Deep inside, though, was the same calm that he faced his coming death with, certain that this was right. It wasn't how he would have had it, but it was infinitely better than the alternative. He didn't think he'd escape such tortures either. And she needed it. To hell with pretense…_he_ needed this too. He was only a man with fears and desires, after all, despite years of trying to hide it. The very idea flooded him with relief, and he kissed her again with a little more confidence, wishing that the night could last far into eternity. 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Draco felt something tugging on the sleeve of his pajamas as his arm trailed lazily off the bed. He opened his eyes groggily, sighing and raising his face from the pillow. _Hell of a night._ Hardly any of the staff had slept, he'd wager. He could still hardly believe the old man was dead. _You must wonder how things will go from here. The king is dead, long live the king…_

He peered down to see Severus's gyrfalcon tugging at his sleeve, just as Hermione's cat pounced directly on his rump. With that he quickly rolled over and sat up. "I'm awake! Now, what is it, damn you?" he said angrily, staring at the two of them. 

Tosca screeched something, and he shook his head impatiently. "I'm not an Animagus, Tosca. I don't understand." She looked at her feline companion. The two of them turned back to him. He wished desperately at the moment that there were some sort of Charm or Potion to understand the speech of animals: because the two of them looked positively frantic. Unfortunately, only Animagism granted the ability. _Wait, they look frantic._ His mind turned it over for a split second, then stated the obvious. "Severus and Hermione, right?" 

He was a bit unnerved to see Tosca actually bobbing her head in a nod. "Did they go out spying last night?" he asked slowly, seeing the rays of dawn coming in the window. "And," he made the natural assumption, "they're not back." Again, it was confirmed. "Shit." 

Severus had spoken to him of such a situation when he had finally revealed his ability as an Animagus. "I should always be back before morning," he had said, black eyes holding his gaze. "If I am not, however, you may assume safely that I have been captured. You know the Death Eaters as I do; don't let them try to bargain for me. Voldemort will never honor it, and he'll kill the messenger too, as it were. Promise me that; if it's my folly, I will not see others killed in an attempt to rectify it." 

He had promised then, feeling unable to do any other for the man who had saved him from the life of a Death Eater. But he was twenty-one now and the vow he took at eighteen was as though made by an entirely different person. "All right," he said grimly. "I'll try to get them. If I'm not back before dusk, though, don't send anyone after me." 

He knew the procedure of Death Eater executions all too well--Lucius had explained that to him when he was a stupid, starry-eyed teenager who wanted nothing more than a Death Eater's life. They would be killed tonight; it was nearly noon now. It being a Friday, they must have canceled classes in light of yesterday's events that he had not been awoken earlier. He had missed breakfast and Minerva's announcement, but then again, so had Severus and Hermione. If he made his preparations, he could have them out easily in time. 

Carefully he summoned everything he remembered of the man he was forced to call his father: his mannerisms, his speech, his bearing. Undoing the wards on a secret drawer of his desk, he slowly reached in and withdrew one of the faded leather pouches he had so proudly given to Severus years before. "Lucius Malfoy," the pouch now half-empty, its ink labeling faded. He also took hold of a flask of blank Polyjuice Potion, making sure that the Unbreakable Charm was still secure on it. 

Much as his mind protested that it was urgent, he knew Lucius wouldn't dare do anything to them before the ritual of execution. He wouldn't dare risk Voldemort's disfavor. Anyhow, he would only leave the manor after lunch for London anyhow--he knew his father now spent his days in the darkest parts of Knockturn Alley with his fellows, plotting God knew what. 

_I must be the only one with the knowledge, or the insanity, to try this,_ he realized. He examined the Polyjuice Potion carefully, thanking God that he and Severus had brewed a fresh batch only last week. Had he been out of the stuff, the only chance for rescue for those two would have been gone. 

Carefully he set about Transfiguring a set of his plain black work robes into his father's opulent, silver-embroidered style. He could recall every fold, every detail, even the scent of obnoxious cologne permeating the fabric. Tosca and Crookshanks meanwhile sat there, looking anxious. "I'll go as soon as I can," he said gruffly, having just finished the collar. "It's little use in me rushing off without preparation, isn't it? And they've a few hours yet. I'll save them, don't worry!" Obviously they had chosen to alert him for two reasons. He knew what those two were up to and thus where they were, and he had the ability to play the role of one able to infiltrate the mansion and save them. _Come on, Malfoy, you've played him before when you were trying to get him killed. You can do it._

He shortened the hem and sleeves a tad, as his father was a bit shorter. He wasn't sure who would be at the mansion, but he'd have to fool them. He prayed to God that Lucius hadn't changed the wards and passwords in the dungeons, or else he was in trouble. He held the robes out at arm's length and studied them, nodding. His white shirt and black trousers would do as they were. "_Accio_ Firebolt!" he called impatiently, catching hold of his Firebolt as it flew towards him and putting it on the bed as he continued his preparations. 

Two o' clock and he was dressed in the robes, wand up his sleeve, and with the flask of Polyjuice Potion in his hand. He had two hours' worth extra, just in case. He smiled grimly at the waiting familiars: Icarus had joined their ranks and was hooting worriedly. "Keep safe, you three. I'll be back soon enough, I'd wager." 

He took a swig of the disgusting, glutinous potion, feeling it slide down his throat in a cold, sticky lump. _You'd think I'd get used to the taste after as much as I've used it._ He would have to leave Hogwarts as Lucius: were he to set foot outside the wards as himself, he'd have half a dozen Death Eaters breathing down his neck in an instant. 

He shuddered at the taste again, felt himself slowly changing. Slightly receding hairline, hint of a middle-aged potbelly, and the like, and he was a perfect replica of his father. Grabbing the broomstick, he kicked off from the floor and ducked to get through the window. 

The cold winter wind slapped against his exposed cheeks and hands, and he gritted his teeth, plunging on. Quickly enough, the clearing in the middle of the Forbidden Forest came to his sight. He could Apparate from there and save time: flying, even with a Firebolt, to Lancashire would take altogether too long. 

Landing in the clearing, he Apparated to the gates of Malfoy Manor, outside the anti-Apparating wards on the house. The sun was now high in the sky, reflecting off the snow and almost blinding him. Kicking off from the ground again, he landed on the lawn of the manor, and casually sauntered up to the front door, banging the brass serpent's head knocker imperiously. It would look odd if "Lucius" didn't enter his home in the normal fashion. He'd just have to bluff through it. _I am the master of this house, I am the master of this house,_ he thought silently. 

A house elf he didn't recognize opened the door. "Sir, you is back from London early!" she squeaked, nervously playing with the hem of her tea towel. 

"Yes. It is," he frowned, "no business of yours. Shouldn't you be polishing the silver?" He handed her his broomstick, which she put in the broomstand. 

"No sir, is Flurry's job. I is Henny, and I is the--" 

"You know your duty, then," he cut off impatiently, just as he had seen Lucius do so many times. "Get back to it and quit prattling." 

"I is sorry, sir," she squeaked, scuttling back towards the kitchen. He breathed a sigh of relief. The first test passed. 

Carefully he moved through the parlor, the library, to the entrance to the dungeons. Triggering the secret panel, he crossed his fingers, hoping that the ward here still had the same password as before. _Here's hoping Dad's too busy kissing Voldemort's arse to change the passwords._ "_Morsmordre,_" he said softly. A faint shimmer of red told him that the ward was now deactivated. 

"Lucius," came the cool voice from behind him, "who have you got down there _this_ time?" He turned, stunned, to see his mother. Memories of owls sent on the sly in the past few years, letter telling him to take care of himself. She sent money to supplement his abysmal teacher's salary when she could. And before that, she trying to shield him from the worst of his father's depravities, trying to subtly guide him away from the path that he was supposed to be predestined to. All with the greatest subtlety: she was Slytherin, after all. 

Something within him wanted to tell her who he was, what he was doing, and see perhaps a flare of pride in her eyes. But the risk was too great--he could not dally around and risk being caught. _I'll get you away from him,_ he promised grimly, _if it's the last damn thing I do._

He hardened his resolve and narrowed his gaze, saying sharply, "None of your business, woman." The tone was exactly the same as he had heard Lucius use countless times. It hurt to see that as usual, she didn't react to it at all. "Now get out of my sight." Silently she obeyed, but she looked at him long and hard for a few seconds. 

He began to descend the stairs, hiding his regrets. He had a mission right now. He drew his wand from his sleeve and murmured, "_Lumos._" Following the gloomy flicker of light, he carefully went down into the dungeons. 

~~~~~~~~~~

They lay together, dressed again and covered by their robes against the chill. He had no idea of the passage of time: it had ceased to have meaning in the blackness. For all he knew, it could be dawn, or it could be dusk already. She was asleep in his arms, and it wasn't without a slight twinge of sadness that he realized he'd never know this feeling again. The simplicity of touch, the nearness of another person, denied him for so many years. For the sheer wonder of that, he could have died with a smile on his lips and no regrets, but for one. 

She was with him. That was the thing still troubling him, even as she murmured something softly as she dozed and shifted against him. True, as she had put it, she'd have something more positive to think of during the tortures, and there was the fact that they could no longer use her for some of the ingredients used in the darkest, most foul potions ever created by a magical mind, or for some of the darker rituals. No chances now for maiden's hair or virgin's blood. Nor the _Nox Immaculata_ ritual; the woman would then bear a child of darkness. Draco had been a result of _Nox Immaculata_; he shuddered a little to remember Narcissa Malfoy's cries of pain at the ritual so many years ago. Obviously she hadn't expected it for her wedding night. 

Still, the Death Eaters were nothing if not creative. If they couldn't use her for her now-lost purity, they'd most certainly amuse themselves with her. He'd spare her that if he could. His hand drifted slowly down the smooth curve of her cheek to the column of her throat. One swift move and she'd be forever out of the Death Eaters' reach. He knew he'd suffer himself for it; they wouldn't be pleased. He'd gladly answer to God for the sin of it: surely there must be some circumstances of preventing grave harm to one you loved. He gritted his teeth, feeling her asleep beside him, trusting without reserve. _Always the innocent ones,_ he thought wearily. 

There was a sudden flood of light that struck his eyes with a blinding pain. "Severus? Hermione?" The silken tones of Lucius Malfoy standing in the open doorway grated over his consciousness. 

"Don't play around, you ass," he said defiantly. "You know we're still here." It was dusk already, then. 

"Get to hell," came the reply, as he heard footsteps on the flagstone and a hand on his shoulder. "Move it already--I haven't got a bloody infinite supply of Polyjuice." He struggled to his feet and saw Hermione doing the same beside him. 

Realization came to his swiftly: it always had. Still, it was a shock. "Draco?" 

"The one and only." Hermione reached down and silently handed Snape his robes; he put them on, trying to ignore the slime and muck now on them. "You've probably spent the entire night in the dark," Draco remarked, casting the Shading Charm so that they wouldn't stumble around blind until their eyes adjusted. "Come on, hurry up now." 

Stumbling a little, they followed him out the back way and stood in the gardens where they had been captured the night before. "You two look a fright," Draco said, turning to study them. He turned to look at Hermione. They did indeed look rather frightful. 

"Thank you," Hermione said, looking at him and smiling slightly. 

"Yes, yes, thank me properly later. I want out of here, and now. Are you two in a position to fly as falcons over the wards? Otherwise, I have a spare broomstick…_Accio_ Firebolt!" 

"I think we're all right to fly," Hermione answered. Draco nodded and caught his broomstick as it came flying towards him. 

"I suppose we'll need to stop by Ollivander's sometime," he sighed. "Broke your wands, I assume?" He knew the Death Eater ritual as well as any. They nodded in reply. "Do you want to go now, or shall we try later?" 

Snape considered for a moment. Without wands, they were effectively useless, and unfortunately, a wand had to be selected personally. They could safely make it to London without being detected. There were anti-Apparating and anti-Detection wards on Diagon Alley now: ever since Death Eaters had attacked Kenneth Beesley and his family there in the early evening six months before. They could Apparate nearby to London and dash in before any of the three of them could be detected. 

"They'll have every Death Eater in England on alert in the next few days when they find we've escaped. Nobody will be looking for us right now, since they think we're in the dungeons," he said slowly. "And I don't know when we'd be able to get out of Hogwarts again. Without wands we're of no use, too." 

"Get it over with now; so long as we're back at Hogwarts before dusk, it's well," Hermione agreed. 

"I have it as almost three," Draco said. They had a few hours, in that case, until nightfall. 

With that, the two of them assumed their falcon forms, Animagism being one of the very few forms of wandless magic, Draco kicked off from the ground on his broomstick, and they flew a fair distance away from Malfoy Manor. He cast a quick Tidying Charm on them, saying with a grimace, "Can't have you going to Diagon Alley like that. Too many questions." Draco's hour of Polyjuice Potion ran out just then, and he didn't drink any of his extra supply, as he no longer needed to assume the look of Lucius. 

Snape was still somewhat in a stupor as they Apparated to the alley beside the Leaky Cauldron. He had accepted his death, and now it seemed he was to live. He didn't even want to think about the future and its implications right then, but he did take a glance at Hermione and think that they had much to discuss once they were back at Hogwarts. For the moment, the trip to Diagon Alley would provide a welcome distraction and a good chance to gather his thoughts. They ducked through the Leaky Cauldron, which was thankfully largely empty, and soon enough were in Diagon Alley. Out of habit, he still kept his senses sharp. Death Eaters may not have been able to Apparate here, but he knew from experience that they regularly congregated in Knockturn Alley nearby. They may not have been looking for himself and Hermione, but he had no doubts that if they were spotted, they were in serious trouble. 

They were far from safety yet, but it was a necessary risk if they were to be of any use in the war. He just hoped the wand would choose him quickly and that Ollivander wouldn't prattle on for too long. Trying to not look surreptitious and attract attention, the three of them strode towards Gringotts. At the back of his mind was the thought that with so many dead recently, God had for some reason chosen him to live. He wondered why he had been spared, but at the same time resolved to make it count for something. 


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Their business was accomplished quickly enough at Gringott's, which was a relief. She noticed he wouldn't look at her but for the occasional surreptitious glance, and felt her cheeks burning hot as they crossed the street to Ollivander's. _We have to talk when we get back,_ she thought. 

She only hoped she hadn't done wrong in asking what she had--she had meant it. But with both of them seeming to be gifted with salvation, the careful avoidance of romantic entanglement in such a dangerous time was shot to hell. They were lovers now: involved whether they wished it or not. Somewhere in the back of her mind she thought that perhaps it would be better to gather her rosebuds while she might, as the saying went. After all, circumstances aside, it was a memory she'd carry happily. 

The incident had only thrust the reality of death further into her consciousness, though. Voldemort had begun an all-out assault; it seemed, in killing the Weasleys and Dumbledore. And now she and Severus had only just escaped death themselves. _Yes, a nice long talk is in store. I'm not going to let him go back to silence and politeness. He said he loves me._

The bell chimed melodically in the depths of the shop as they stepped into Ollivander's. She eyed the shelves of narrow boxes stacked clear to the ceiling, remembering her first trip here ten years ago and the awe she had felt at the idea that she indeed was a witch and about to get a real magic wand, eager to handle as many of them as possible and thrilled to the core when one of them was the perfect fit. Now she was eager to just get moving on back to Hogwarts: she had to restrain herself from looking over her shoulder at intervals. 

Ollivander appeared before them. "Severus Snape. My, I haven't seen you in…thirty years now, since you got your first wand. Ebony and Peruvian Vipertail heartstring, ten inches, wasn't it? Mm--powerful wand, but I don't like to deal much in Vipertail heartstring any more. A little too nasty, just like its source. But it's about time for a new wand, indeed." 

Snape nodded impatiently, meeting Ollivander's pale stare with his own inscrutable black one. "You've grown a bit," Ollivander mused, smiling a bit at his own understatement, eyeing Snape's six-foot height. Taking hold of his tape measure from the desk, he set it to work measuring Snape all over. She smiled slightly to see him rolling his eyes at it. Ollivander scurried off into the bowels of the storage and returned a few minutes later with a stack of wand boxes, just as the tape measure floated back to the desk lazily after measuring the circumference of Snape's right wrist. "Give it a try," Ollivander urged, pressing a wand into Snape's hand. "Heartstring, of course, and baobab, ten inches." 

He calmly tried a simple _Wingardium Leviosa_ on the register book, but nothing happened. Ollivander snatched back the wand and moved immediately onto the next one. "Rowan, perhaps." This one produced a shaky levitation, but Ollivander rejected it with a curt shake of his head. 

It was only about ten wands in when the right one was obviously found. The book flew easily into the air, and Ollivander literally clapped his hands in glee. "That's the one, then. Maple and Welsh Red heartstring, twelve inches. Very rare wands, these days: the Ministry won't let me use much Welsh Red, of course. Lucky if they allot me enough to make one a year," he sighed. "Makes for a more powerful wand than Welsh Green, but then you'd know that: it does the same in your potions." He gave Snape a rather cryptic look. "I'm certain you remember what I said about the powers of dragon heartstring wands before." 

Then he turned to her, at once all cheer again. "And Hermione Granger. Apple and unicorn tail, eleven inches. A fine wand indeed: wonderful for defense. Let's see." He set the tape measure to work on her as he scampered back into his stores to find the wand for her. "Shall we try unicorn hair again? Spruce, eight inches, eh?" Nothing happened. He tried four or five more unicorn tail hair wands. "Odd…usually the core stays the same throughout the wizard or witch's life," he frowned, when the register book didn't move even the tiniest bit. 

She remembered what he had said about unicorn tail hair. _Purity of heart, Miss Granger. Unicorns are the noblest creatures. Only those of pure Light can wield such wands to effect._ She thought that she had certainly moved away from pure Light in the past few years. But then, perhaps that was somewhat of a good thing: she knew how easily the innocent were slaughtered. "Well, let's try dragon heartstring. Palmetto, fourteen inches. It's wonderful to be able to work with material from all over the world," he said with cheer. "Lends such individual properties." 

She could see Severus and Draco getting fidgety as half an hour later, the pile of wands before her was growing, and there was no sign yet of any wand to fit her. _Please, work_, she thought desperately, grasping hold of the new wand the Ollivander proffered. 

He intoned its qualities: "Cedar, phoenix feather, ten inches. Ah, that's one from the American phoenix; Mr. Edison's familiar. He was kind enough to give me two feathers when he was here in London." _The Wizard of Menlo Park,_ she remembered from the History of Magic. _Apt name._ The energizing surge through her, as though she had just awoken from a good, long night's sleep, assured her that would do. Just to be sure, she levitated the register book with ease. She nodded, smiling in relief. "This is the one." 

Ollivander turned next to Draco. "Ah, another unusual wand, as I recall. Augurey feather and blackthorn, nine inches. How has it worked? I've given up on the Augurey in favor of the scarlet phoenix; it's a powerful core, but too temperamental for most." 

"Oh, it's working perfectly for me," Draco assured him, presenting the wand. "I won't be in need of a new one for some time." 

Ollivander nodded and moved to the ancient register, announcing before long that Severus owed ten Galleons and she eight and twelve Sickles. The money was duly paid, wands thrust hastily up their sleeves, and they turned to leave. "Take care," came Ollivander's quiet voice. "With Albus Dumbledore gone, you will need those wands in days ahead, I foresee." 

Moving towards the Leaky Cauldron, they kept mostly to the shadows, hurrying to get outside the wards. The faintest colors of dusk were painting the horizon as Snape grabbed her roughly by the arm and pulled her back into the alley. She started to protest, but immediately shut her mouth when he gestured slightly towards Lucius Malfoy on the other side of the street, moving towards the Leaky Cauldron at his own brisk pace. "We must hurry," he murmured. "He'll be heading back to the manor now…" 

Her desperation was held in check only by the sheer concentration needed to do the advanced magic of Apparating, and especially with a new wand to which she was not used. Still, it was with haste that they went through the Leaky Cauldron a minute after Lucius had gone, making certain they were outside the wards, and Apparating to the clearing in the middle of the Forbidden Forest. 

Draco pulled his broomstick from his pocket and performed an _Engorgio_ on it to return it to its normal size. She was her falcon self within moments, flying towards Hogwarts at an almost reckless speed, the encroaching sunset at the corner of her eye. They reached Hogwarts just as the sun was flaring a fiery orange and sinking below the horizon. Landing in his quarters, Draco bid them a hasty farewell, using the Floo network to get to his own room. 

He gestured her to a chair beside the fire, giving her a weary glance and for a moment looking fully his forty-one years. She sat, hiding a wince at being slightly sore, eyeing him carefully. _Obviously ready to talk._ "I understand," he said quietly, "if you wish to walk out this room and pretend nothing occurred. You were under the greatest duress, and probably made decisions you would never have made otherwise. Nobody heard us take vows: if you wish it so, it never happened." 

She stared at him. Never happened. Never had held him in her arms. Never been overcome with emotion to hear the hesitant but heartfelt things he had murmured in her ear as they made love. Never realized how sensitive and easily wounded he was behind the mask of sarcasm and wit: a man who had never been loved and was afraid of only being used. Never married him with body, heart, and soul. _Perhaps it was he that was making promises only under duress,_ she thought. _The man I was with in those dungeons wouldn't be shoving me away like this…_

She could feel the tears pricking hotly in her eyes, and thought angrily, _Damn him. One night, and he's already got me breaking down._ "If you think," she said, controlling her voice with an effort, "that I'm just going to throw over vows taken upon God and my honor, you're not the man I thought…you really don't know me at all. My God--it _happened_, Severus, you can't just say it never was! It was real. I understand," forcing the words out, "if _you_ want out of this. But I'm not going to let you excuse it by saying it's what _I_ want. If you want to walk away, you look me in the eyes right now and say it meant nothing." 

"Hermione, I…that is…" 

"Say it, damn you! You've _never_ had a problem hurting people with words before. So will you love me or lose me?" Suddenly she couldn't bear to look at him while he cut her to the quick. She turned to go, trying to hide the tears. There came the careful hand upon her shoulder, and she turned to face him. He gently lifted her chin so that her gaze met his, and she saw a glimmer of something she had never before seen in Severus Snape's eyes. Hope. 

"I said I loved you, and I meant it. I thought it was…only honorable, if I loved you, to give you your freedom from what could turn out to be a bad situation." His words were hesitant. The flood of relief within her at it was almost palpable. 

"We…we rather lived last night to the fullest because we thought there was nothing beyond that. We're still facing that, Severus, every day we'll wake up, until one side is left standing. So why shouldn't we take the same attitude for what time we have, whether it shall be a week or a century? _Carpe diem_." 

"Fortune favors the bold," he said with a slight, almost boyish smile. "But why?" 

"Why does fortune favor the bold?" she asked, confused. 

"No, why do you love me?" He cleared his throat. "I'm not naïve enough to think a state of war will change how I am seen here at Hogwarts and in the rest of the magical world. Rita Skeeter would indeed love this for her scandal-rag. You risk much here: I haven't much further to fall in repute, but you surely do." 

"Do you think I have time to worry about reputation when my very bloody life is on the line?" She looked at him again. "Because you don't think I'm a boring bookworm. You've been willing to teach me so much. You thought enough of me to do so, but somehow you never made me feel inferior. You understand me without my need to explain or defend myself. Because I know I'm privileged enough to be one of the few you trust enough to let behind the mask. I can trust you without reserve. You've got your courage, your honor, and your wit. I still don't like some things you do, but…I love you because you're yourself." She shrugged helplessly. "I can't say more than that." 

"I think that says it well," he murmured faintly, taking hold of her hands in his. Just then Tosca came bursting in the window. 

Like a worried mother hen, she immediately began scolding, feathers fluffed up in ire. _You two stupid humans…bloody buggering everything up! Worried sick all night, I was. Crookshanks and I finally managed to get Draco after you, but what the…_ She stopped short, seeing the two of them standing there. _Well,_ she said smugly. _Good to see you finally got some priorities straight, Severus._

She saw another sight she'd never have believed: a dull crimson coloring those high cheekbones. "Be gone with you, Tosca," he said, the gentleness from his tone evaporating back into its usual commanding tone. "We're fine, as you can see." Tosca would have been smirking, Hermione was sure, had she possessed lips. "Tosca," he said in that dangerous near-purr that always indicated a coming threat, "if you don't stop chortling over it, I swear I'll turn you into a human and leave you like that." 

Apparently being trapped as one of the overly sentimental, ungainly, flightless beasts she always joked about was enough of a threat to curb the merry gyrfalcon. She glowered at him with large dark eyes, and hopped to the windowsill. She looked over her shoulder with one last repartee. _You've maybe mated, then? If you have a chick, will it be a falcon Animagus?_ she said hopefully. _May not be a total loss in that case._

The blush deepened. "_Tosca!_" he positively growled. She hopped off the windowsill and flew off. "Annoying piece of work," he grumbled. 

"You know you're fond of her." 

"I think I liked her better when she just carried my letters and I didn't have to put up with the jibes," he muttered. "Still," he relented a bit, "she is quite the wit." He avoided her eyes for a moment. "We do have to consider," he said, obviously a bit awkward with what he was trying to say, "that last night…well…there is the possibility. After all, we couldn't use anything to prevent it." Without their wands or a potion, it was true that there had been nothing to prevent her becoming pregnant. But then again, they hadn't thought they'd live to have it be an issue. 

"If it happened, we will deal with it." She wasn't sure she was ready for children, and bringing a new life into a world such as this was perhaps not the wisest of decisions. But if it was to be, it was. "Might as well test so that we know," she suggested, a little nervous. 

"Erm…how?" 

"Didn't they teach you? Never mind, it _was_ fifth year when we had…ah…education on the matter. Different sessions for boys and girls." Harry and Ron had joked about the boys' session consisting mainly of being told curtly, "Don't," and learning various euphemisms. 

"Oh, _that_. Ah…not in my day. I believe they started it about five years after I left." 

"Well, there's a…a Charm you can do. Madame Pomfrey taught us about that sort of thing…" She cleared her throat. "I can't do it on myself, so I suppose I leave it to you." 

"The incantation?" He withdrew his wand from his sleeve. 

"_Gravidas Apparicio_," she replied. He murmured the words, and she felt a bit of almost tickling warmth in her lower belly. "Ah…what color do you see?" Pink would be a girl, blue a boy, and white would mean they were in the clear. 

"White, it seems." 

She nodded in relief. "No worries, then." 

There came a furious pounding on the door, and he strode across the room after giving her a relieved look. Minerva stood there, looking extremely agitated. "What happened?" she demanded. 

They exchanged a look. "You may want to sit," Severus said politely. "It's a rather long story." 


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Wearily they sat with Draco, having explained the whole affair to Minerva in her quarters. Severus noted with relief that the lines of temper in her face had eased out as the tale had unfolded, though he well understood her lashing out at them. Strangely enough, Minerva had already known about their Animagism. He knew Dumbledore had not told, so he wasn't quite sure how she had found out. It was their running off and almost getting killed that made her angry, and something in him felt very apologetic about it. After all, it had been foolishness, even if it was duty. It had been badly done, and his insistence had completely ruined their efforts as spies. 

But at least her temper seemed to be cooling after a few harsh words about expecting more from them. She had the right of that, certainly. After all, the students had well needed a united front presented from the teachers of Hogwarts when she had made the fateful announcement, and they had not been present. And too, Minerva was obviously more than a little unsettled and afraid, having the mantle of power and responsibility suddenly thrown upon her shoulders, and that heavily so. 

He hardly dared glance at Hermione seated beside him on an overstuffed sofa of MacLaren tartan, didn't dare to give even a hint of what had transpired between them in those dungeons to Minerva. God knew, he didn't regret it, and the thought that she still wanted him for life filled him with a wild, almost unrestrained joy. But that for the moment was too private, too intimate, to shout out to the world. And that world itself was too uncertain and had things much more at the front of the mind than their romance. But it was a secret spot of light; the brightest flare he had felt in his heart and soul in twenty years. He only wondered what price God might choose to exact in return. After all, nothing was free. He didn't want to consider that at the moment though. 

He finally looked at her, careful to keep his gaze impassive. _Not even a hint. When it's time, we'll tell. I'd go shout it from the bloody Astronomy Tower if she but asked. But not now..._ She was tired, and even Draco's Tidying Charm hadn't tamed that wild, wavy hair. He noticed the slight hint of a smile about her lips, though, and a slight glow in her eyes. "We three will have to..." Hermione began, glancing at Minerva and then away, sighing heavily and returning to reality. "We'll have to find something else to do in the war here--Voldemort has us ferreted out. He knows Severus and I are Animagi, and I'm sure Lucius Malfoy, bastard though he may be, is not enough of a twit to not figure out precisely who rescued us and how he did it. Draco's in a bad spot too. Our entire," her voice caught, "spy network has just collapsed." That struck him to the core again with a sharp dagger of guilt. 

"We'll get to that," Minerva murmured tiredly, rubbing her eyes with careful fingertips. "Draco, you may leave. I wish to speak further with these two." She gave him a small smile. "Thank you for your efforts on their behalf--we owe you a great debt indeed." 

He noticed the relieved smile on Draco's face at that. Perhaps the young man felt he had taken a step towards redeeming himself for the one act of darkness three years before, even if he no longer knew what he had done. Severus knew it had still weighed heavy upon him. "Thank you," Draco said, giving the three of them a calm look with silver-blue eyes and quietly leaving, footsteps echoing softly against the stones of the corridor and then fading out. 

Murdoch came trotting in just then. _Minerva, there's a wee brawl goin' on in the Great Hall--Lowe and Lightoller at it again, and they've drawn that Hufflepuff lad, Andrews, into it as well._ The terrier turned brown eyes upon himself and Hermione. _Well, ye've finally come back, then? Dinnae pretend ye dinnae hear. I've known about ye as falcon for years, Severus, and young Hermione too. Told Minerva about it, I did._

Ratted out by a terrier. There was some irony to that thought. Still, it had left them with some less explaining to do, so that was perhaps a bit of a relief, and he had not gotten any sort of lecture about endangering Hermione's life in her seventh year by allowing her to spy. Or maybe Minerva, being Gryffindor herself, realized that when Hermione had made up her mind, he couldn't have stopped her. The only recourse had been to make sure she did it, and did it under his supervision and care. "How did you find out?" he asked Murdoch idly, still pondering it. 

_Ye've got a rather chatty falcon, and yer lass has a chatty kit, indeed._

"My lass?" he repeated disbelievingly, raising an eyebrow. "What makes you say so?" 

_Oh, sod off. Rest of the humans may ignore ye, but anyone who bothers to look at ye can see ye love her._

He felt himself blush, mortified. He half-turned to look at Hermione. She sat there, face a study in calmness, but he could see the tension in the set of her shoulders, the stiffness of her spine. A faint shadow was in her eyes. A distinct warning, that, from how he knew her. _Deny me and that's it._ She felt too deeply and completely, trusted too much, to recover easily if he said he felt nothing now when an hour ago he had told her he loved her. And God, how he had meant it. It had taken all his courage to tell her that, and to still offer her the choice to walk away. 

He had always avoided difficult choices if ever he could, because it seemed no matter how he chose, someone had ended up hurt. They may have thought him a heartless bastard, but he had lain awake nights agonizing over the choices he had made and the paths they had led him to. The choice to deny his past and create a new, British wizard-born in its place. The choice to ignore Aislinn. The choice to leave the Death Eaters and surrender himself to Dumbledore's mercy or condemnation. All his life he had thought seeing such Rubicons upcoming and neatly sidestepping them had been foresight, prudence. Perhaps it had been cowardice, though, in avoiding things that were difficult and would hurt. The decisions almost always caught up and forced themselves to be made anyhow. 

And so in hopes of being the man she saw him to be, the man he wanted to be, he smiled slightly and met Minerva's eyes. "I do." He heard the quiet sigh of relief beside him. _Well, no sense in telling the half of it._ "What's more," he went on, "we're married." 

It was one of the first times he had actually seen Minerva McGonagall unsettled and obviously shocked. Well, there _had_ been that time in his fifth year when Slytherin had beaten Gryffindor for the Quidditch Cup, and he had looked down during the Slytherin victory lap and seen her sitting there, dumbfounded and forlorn in her Gryffindor scarf...well, enough of _that_ memory. She was no longer the enemy as he had thought then. "You're serious, Severus?" she asked, her tone carefully controlled, but something was obviously wrong. 

"He is," Hermione assured her, a note of either amusement or incipient hysteria quivering in her voice. 

"But...when? How?" She still looked completely lost, and her tone was turning sharper. 

"It's done, Minerva," Hermione said almost gently. "Never mind the wheres and whens. I love him and I've married him, with or without your approval." 

_Approval? Good God, since when does one need approval to marry? Is there something against it?_ After all, some of the other teachers were married. 

Aylmeri's husband bred birds to be wizard familiars: Tosca had been one of his chicks. Athol's wife was an ambassador for the merpeople. Minerva's own husband was a Pembroke Welsh corgi Animagus and Chief Mediwizard at St. Mungo's. His mind interrupted the recitation of information about his fellow teachers' spouses gleaned over the years with the cold, numbing fear that he was going to lose the one thing that mattered more than anything ever had before in his rather sorry life. 

"Is there anything," he cleared his throat, hearing the faint croak in it, "against it...?" The look of near-panic in Minerva's eyes sent his heart racing. He tried not to let it show how much it mattered to him, how he could be shattered by just a word right then. One simple "Yes" could break him far more than twenty bouts of Cruciatus. Something came back to him from his hungrily devouring every wizarding book he could get his hands on in his years at Hogwarts. _Andropous and French...oh, dear God._

Minerva sighed, massaging her temples and not looking up. Hermione gave him a look of horror, both of them obviously just realizing what they had done, and how what they had thought to be a last comfort now had great and possibly dire effect upon their lives. "Yes, there is. It's in _Hogwarts: A History._ Just a little note. Esmeralda French, the DADA teacher, married," her voice dropping low, "Justinian Andropous, the Potions teacher. It was just after the Anglo-Celt Wizard Wars broke out, and many newly licensed graduates died in the wars. Whether it was true or not, they accused Andropous and French of spending all their time...erm...in bed rather than thinking of teaching, and that the students had been inadequately prepared to fight due to it. They outlawed any romances between teachers in times of war--kind of like the Muggle military, you know? Two members of the same unit or on the same ship can't be married...it endangers everyone..." She kept saying something, but his mind barely registered. 

It was like some sick parody repeating itself. The DADA teacher and the Potions master married in a time of war. He stared at Minerva. "The penalty?" he asked, half to himself. He remembered then. "Breaking of the wand and exile from the world of magic." He closed his eyes, not wanting to acknowledge it. _Damnation._ The fight needed all of them. They didn't need to be lost to some arcane regulations... 

Dimly he was aware of Hermione asking, her voice rising slightly, "But...but the Holmeses were married and teaching here during the war against Grindelwald..." 

"They were long married...some fifty years, I believe," he said wearily. "I think the point is to prevent the complete infatuation of newlyweds..." 

Minerva cleared her throat pointedly. "Now, tell me Severus," she said, voice almost unnaturally even, "how were you two married? The Ministry would not have performed such a ceremony, knowing you two to both be teachers here at Hogwarts, and Gwalch is not in denial of this being a time of war as Fudge was. So you were married in a Muggle ceremony?" 

"Not precisely...it was last night. We said vows..." He trailed off, realizing what she was getting at. He was more grateful that he would have liked to think for the understanding and compassion in Minerva's eyes at that. 

"There are no records?" Her voice was flooding with relief. "Then there is no worry. You two realize that I cannot afford to lose you now, especially not for something like this. You may not be able to spy, but I have no doubt you will be of great help." She gave thema sympathetic look. "I know that you will have to hide this away until this is all over." 

"Small sacrifice," Hermione murmured. "We're all making them right now." Something within him sagged a trifle at that. Just when he would have been happy to proclaim himself to the world, it was forced to be clandestine. There was a sharply biting irony in that, to be sure. Spent all his life hiding things, and when he didn't want to, he was forced to it. They'd have to be careful in exhibiting anything remotely like romance. Word seemed to get to the Ministry no matter what you did, and Gwalch was a stickler to the rulebook. One slip, one kiss witnessed, and they'd be lost to the war and the wizarding world. _Can there be a period in my life that I'm not toeing the line in one form or another?_ he thought wearily. 

"As to that, was there any discussion towards any action last night before you were caught?" 

It came back to him with horrible clarity. "With Dumbledore out of the way, he says the final plans can be made..." 

For awhile they discussed all they had seen and heard at Death Eaters meetings in the past six months. It felt pitifully little. Voldemort spoke very little of strategy, especially when he had to be aware he was being spied upon. 

Still, as they sat there and his tense nerves slowly eased themselves down somewhat. Gravely Minerva absorbed all they told her. "Let us help you," Hermione said urgently. "We know him...as well as anyone can. Draco and Ron also..." 

Minerva nodded slightly. "What do you suggest?" 

"We need to plan," he spoke up. "He will know that we will tell everything we have found out. But he will proably also plan on us being so paralyzed by losing the Headmaster that we won't know what to do. He'll expect to find us huddled like hares trapped in their burrow, easily caught and killed. We need to be _ready_, Minerva. He'll be coming for us. Dumbledore can't help us, but we're not lost." 

"We shall call a meeting tomorrow," she said, nodding. "Begin preparations. What is your estimation of...when?" 

"I really don't know. But he's nothing if not careful. He'll take awhile to plan, but he'll strike while he still figures us reeling from the loss. A month, two months...I'd wager it being before this school year is out. We must move, and quickly. If the students have been working hard, they must do so twice as much." 

"They're already worn out and on the edge," Hermione protested. He looked at her and tried to gentle his voice. 

"Better they break now in the safety of Hogwarts than in the line of battle. They must be ready." It was said, hard and unfeeling as it was. It was the simple truth. For a fighter to find they could not handle what was required during the battle would be a disaster. 

"I believe," Minerva nodded, "that we must declare Hogwarts under martial law." He knew what that meant. All efforts concentrated towards cramming students full of practical knowledge: Potions, DADA, Charms, and the sort. All extraneous classes such as Astronomy and Divination temporarily suspended and physical practice of the day's lessons taken instead. Rules tightened to an almost unbearable degree. The harshest and most Spartan of conditions; effectively a military training camp. Students being hammered with the realization that they were being drilled for being on the front lines within a month or so, particularly sixth and seventh years. But it had to be done. "It is Saturday tomorrow. We can take the weekend to formulate our plan, then announce it on Monday." 

"All right, then." 

"Oh, and Hermione? As I am Headmistress, you are now head of Gryffindor. Under martial law, that means you'll be responsible for weekly reviews of your student's progress, making certain they're ready...though I'm sure you know the duties well enough. I think you have the rule book memorized," Minerva said somewhat dryly. It was only natural, as Hermione, Minerva, and Albus had been the only Gryffindors on staff at Hogwarts. He felt a small frisson of pride for her, though. Minerva wasn't finished. "You're now Deputy Headmaster, Severus. No, don't argue." He didn't, though it took him more than a little aback. Himself? The former Death Eater? The trust implied in that proclamation was no small thing. 

They made general sounds of agreement and accepted Minerva's congratulations. She had one last thing to say. "Now, I had best go save young Lowe and Lightoller from each other. They will be sent to you as Heads of House in the morning for their discipline. But I suggest that you two be careful. Hogwarts has eyes and ears all over." 

He felt himself going pink to the tips of his ears. Chastened like some silly seventh year. He sighed and took it as well as he could, though the idea of Minerva even _considering_ his newly-discovered sex life was beyond embarrassing. 

Still, he didn't protest when Hermione followed him to his quarters. "I don't want to be alone tonight," she murmured. He understood well enough. He'd had enough nightmares from Death Eaters himself, and their near brush with death wasn't something to face alone. 

She went to perhaps unbutton his robes, but he laughed lightly and stepped back. "Oh, this time I _do_ mean it when I say I won't. Not 'till I can marry you properly." _Not 'till they all know I love you and I've done it right, instead of something half-fearful, hidden in the dark. I owe nothing less._ "Besides," he murmured, "we can't set the paintings talking, can we now?" 

She laughed at that and gave his hand a squeeze. Feeling her asleep in his bed beside him was a little strange, but not unpleasant. _A man could get used to this..._ The events of the last few days finally caught up with him and he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. 


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Hermione dressed the next morning with slightly fumbling fingers, mind a million miles away. And it was rather not on thoughts of the newly romanced, but rather thinking of the long and difficult battle ahead. Severus too was a little distracted--he barely reacted to Tosca's teasing. A house elf had come by at ten to say that the war council, as it were, would be at one. Interestingly enough, Minerva had called for it to be in the lecture room in the dungeons, rather than the staff meeting room. She could only conclude that there were too many to fit in the meeting room, and wondered who had chosen to ally themselves with their band of rogue magicians. After all, they were committing what amounted to treason in Gwalch's book. There was danger to either side: Voldemort or Gwalch. Scylla and Charybidis. 

She sat through lunch, barely tasting the veal and potatoes, but then somewhat regretting the heavy fare, as it sat in a leaden lump in her stomach. Perhaps it wasn't only the food. The reality was crystallizing in her mind instead of the vague notion it had been before. It would come to the battle for the wizarding world, and many would die. Many. Perhaps Aylmeri sitting next to her, or Minerva wearily looking over the frightened students, Oliver Rathbone at the table as Head Boy, herself, or...Severus. 

Could she stand that? There was always a terrible price to be paid for freedom. Widows and orphans left in the trail of wreckage, families torn beyond repair. But it had never affected her before...the danger had never been so near. And she had never before had someone that it would hurt so much to lose. Severus glanced towards her, perhaps thinking the same to judge from the lines of worry creasing his face, and gave her a quick smile, hidden almost before it was there. 

She took a good swallow of coffee, grateful for the jolt it gave her. The last few days had been so wearying that she wasn't sure that she could stay awake on her own power. Idly she added a lump of sugar to it for a slight additional rush, remembering for a moment Albus Dumbledore's weakness for sweets and blinking back as-yet unshed tears. _Business first. Then the grief._

"Where were you yesterday?" She blinked, looking to see where the question had come from. Persephone Sprout, it seemed, poison-green eyes guileless and worried. 

"Well...that is..." she fumbled, unsure if she should reveal it now. "It's sort of...I imagine it'll come up at the meeting?" She gave a sheepish smile, apology written openly in her countenance. 

The older witch shrugged philosophically and took it well. Such was Hufflepuff nature. Hermione ate as fast as she could, trying to not show her unease. It seemed a hundred years before they left the Great Hall, and she hurried towards the dungeons, turning over the future in her head again and again, trying to think of something to say.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Severus watched Hermione hurry out and followed at a slightly more leisurely pace beside Minerva. "I assume you will want to bring up our knowledge of the Dark Lord's activities?" he murmured, avoiding a crowd of first-years. 

Minerva sighed and gave him a sympathetic look, knowing what he was asking in addition. "I'm afraid I shall have to tell them about your past, Severus. They won't believe what you know of him otherwise..." 

"They won't believe a word from me _after_ you tell them," he returned dryly. "After all, I just might turn traitor again, isn't that right?" The sting of years of disdain, and even Minerva's tacit mistrust, lent an edge to his tone. _Slytherins. Never turn your back on them._

She turned to him, eyes blazing. "You've pitied yourself for long enough, Severus Snape. There is something much greater at stake than your reputation, and if you're truly so frightened that you're not willing to risk that in order to win this, I think Albus must have seen something that wasn't..." she abruptly cut off. 

He forced himself to calm, knowing that she said it not out of malice, but fear. For Heaven's sake, she looked mere inches from the breaking point. It was not a time to bring up House politics and relations. "I am willing to do what I must to win this. I only say so to warn you that I don't think they'll just shrug and say 'All right, so let's listen to the Death Eater.' Once you've been the enemy, they never trust you." The next words spilled out before he could help himself. "I found that out in _grade_ school, Minerva. Six years old and I was 'the enemy'. I was 'the enemy' when I came here and became Slytherin! So don't tell me how it is!" He quickened his pace, realizing that he had said too much. 

As he reached the door of the lecture room, he felt the fleeting touch of a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry for the past. And I know…I know that I wronged you when it came to Sirius Black..." 

"Never mind it," he said curtly. Somehow, its sting was lessened. Maybe it was the thought that while Gryffindors had tortured him and made his youth a living hell, a Gryffindor now looked at him with all the love in the world in her eyes and never thought of him as Dark or Slytherin or a Death Eater; just a man. 

"No, it's not all right…" Minerva stopped and leaned back against a stone wall, arms crossed almost protectively over her chest, hardly daring to look up at him. "I was engaged once, before I met Diaramuid, did you know?" 

"No." 

"You know how young romances are here," she went on, looking over his shoulder as if staring beyond in some memory, voice almost trance-like. "He had asked me to a Yule Ball our fourth year and from then on, we were always together. Dippet called us his two brightest stars of the year, so it was no surprise when we became prefects together, and then Head Boy and Girl…" He had been from another House, then. Diaramuid McGonagall was a Ravenclaw. Funny that she hadn't married a Gryffindor. 

"He was everything I thought I wanted. Charming, brilliant, sweet, ambitious: I agreed to marry him at the end of sixth year. After graduation, he told me about his plans for the future. And my place in them. At that…" She looked up and met his eyes, and there were wounds of the soul still gaping open, he could tell. "Well, my plans to become Minerva Riddle went flying out the window. Riddle indeed…I certainly hadn't solved out who he _really_ was. He had me fooled. He had us _all_ fooled, except for Albus…" 

He was speechless for the second time in only a few days. Prim, perfect Minerva McGonagall in love with a young Lord Voldemort? Good God. This truly was becoming a time of surprises. 

"Let me just say that after that little four years' deception from Tom, I said I'd never believe in a Slytherin again, especially once I saw what he did with his life. And I was deeply bitter towards all of you when you were in school. You caught the worst of me when I was determined to not believe that Black could do such a thing, despite what Lupin had to say, and Potter...I'm afraid I may have colored the Gryffindors with my own bias…my folly." Unspoken was that she had helped contribute to the Slytherins' alienation and helped drive them to Voldemort's ranks. The knowledge of guilt for past sins weighed upon both of them. 

He nodded slowly. "And now?" he queried, deliberately casual. 

"I trust you." The three simple words said everything. "Is he truly as bad as…" She hesitated, obviously remembering the boy she had laughed with and loved so many years ago. 

"Worse," he said grimly. "Much as you hate the Ministry, that's just sheer bungling, willful blindness and stupidity for the most part. He is evil, in its purest form." Something stirred at the back of his mind as he mentioned the Ministry. "Damn! He mentioned something else last night. His spy at the Ministry who betrayed Dumbledore…Haverforth!" 

"What?" Minerva stared at him. "Liam Haverforth?" 

"Yes." 

Anger flared in her eyes at the betrayal of one of her own Gryffindors. Then something snuffed it, like a candle blown out. "What can we do about it?" she said in an almost lifeless tone. "Gwalch won't listen to a damned word we say to warn him. Not until Liam's betrayed every last one of them will he believe it. And we thought Fudge was terrible…" 

"Well we can't just let the damned man sit there all smug and kill off any sort of allies we might gain!" 

"So what do you suggest? Send someone to kill him?" 

He turned the idea around in his mind, like a man rubbing a water-smoothed pebble in his hand. "That's not such a bad idea. Eliminates the threat, and sends a message to Voldemort that we do mean to stand against him. It _has_ to be done, and if Gwalch won't, we must." 

"Well…" He could see how awkward she felt with such tactics. Gryffindors were brave, foolishly so, but it was often misdirected. They'd send out a suicidal Charge of the Light Brigade when a bit of simple Swamp-Fox bushwhacking would triumph. They had no sense of the often-underhanded things needed to win a war, particularly when the enemy had no scruples whatsoever. Nobility had to get shot to hell, and fast. She seemed to be realizing that. 

"We've been trying to kill Death Eaters before, Minerva. He's one of them." It felt odd to be asked for strategy: leading this fight was one of the last things he wanted. It seemed Minerva had declared him for it, though. 

"Yes, but who do you suggest we send?" she said in barely more than a whisper. Unspoken was the cold question of, _Who can we sacrifice if it goes wrong?_

They both barely heard the reply of, "I will." Severus turned on his heel to see the Boy Who Lived standing there, curious determination written openly in his face. 

"Harry," Minerva said, shaking her head, "you can't; it's too…" 

"Too risky?" His voice rose, his tone becoming incredulous. "How is it that I am too valuable to risk? Who the hell's been risking their hides day by day to fight for the past years? It wasn't me!" The self-loathing roiling inside him was all too obvious in the bitterness of his words. "I have to do _something_. Let me do this. Let me do _something_. I couldn't stand being here swaddled in cotton wool, dammit, my every move guarded until I could be turned loose on Voldemort!" 

That wasn't quite the way of it, but trying to interrupt the young man was pointless. He could tell. _Let him rant it out._ Minerva's jaw was squarely set, though. "Oh, aye? And if we turn you loose to hunt down Mister Haverforth, what guarantee have we that you won't be so filled with this anger that you won't bungle it and lose us a valuable fighter?" 

A crooked smile. "I'll do it. You know when I have my mind set to something I'll do it and do it well. I was your youngest and best Seeker because I wanted it. I want this." There were a few beats of silence as they merely looked at the short young man with fire in his green eyes. "I'm going after him, with or without your go-ahead. He's betrayed the Code of Conduct, he's betrayed Hogwarts, he's betrayed Gryffindor, and as you two said, he has to be stopped." 

Minerva sighed. "Then go. But for the love of God, come back." 

"I survived Voldemort himself my fourth year. One of his slimy little minions won't take me down," Harry replied, and Severus could almost smile this time at the Potter arrogance in it. "Now, we have a meeting." He brushed past the two of them and went into the lecture room, shoulders set, head carried high. 

"Always was willful," Minerva said with a half-smile. "I think we have him back, Severus." 

He nodded, rather relieved himself. He followed Minerva into the lecture room and stopped short to see that it was nearly full. Not only with Hogwarts' staff, but with wizards and witches from every corner of the globe. There sat Sherlock and Irene Holmes, John Watson with them. Remus Lupin was present. Hagrid and Madame Maxime on behalf of the giants sat near the back. Apparently Minerva had been busy yesterday sending out the rallying cry to anyone and everyone who would stand with them. In all, there were thirty-four souls present from outside Hogwarts. Still less than Voldemort's forces, but he began to hope. After all, some of them were only here to represent an entire group… 

Minerva cleared her throat and stepped in front of them, beginning to speak as she gestured them to their seats. He sat down beside Hermione, barely aware of her hand brushing surreptitiously against his for a moment. 

He tensed when she began to reveal the role he and Hermione had played in the war, and closed his eyes, waiting for the condemnation to rain down when she spoke of him playing the same role twenty years before. After a little jaunt as a Death Eater, of course. There were gasps and he heard a distinct cry of "I knew it!" from somewhere in the crowd. He felt himself flinch, unable to deny or defend. He heard Hermione faintly whispering to him to take courage. 

Minerva quickly hushed them by speaking of his heroism this time around and a lump formed in his throat when she almost defiantly said, "He and Hermione Granger have done much for this cause; more than anyone else here can claim. I would trust them with my life." There were no murmurs of resentment after that. 

Minerva concluded by explaining what steps were to be taken and pleading for their aid. In all, it was a rather good job of stirring the warrior in the hearts of the masses, even if some of her words bordered on the melodramatic. He breathed a sigh of relief when it was over and they were all filing out. Prayed that revealing his sordid youth hadn't ruined Minerva's case. The damage, though, was done. He was certain of it. He spied Sirius Black and averted his eyes. The last thing he wanted to hear about was Black's gloating about how he had known about Snape's Death Eater past all along. 

To his surprise Black nodded to him, nonchalant and nearly amiable. _Things have changed,_ he thought in a daze. House elves were dashing around frantically in the halls, obviously making accommodations ready for those who would be staying with them. He only hoped some would stay and fight. He sauntered towards the dungeons, passing Harry Potter on the way, looking almost ready to be ill. Apparently he wasn't quite as resolved as he had given the impression of. 

"Potter!" he called, and Harry's head jerked up. "Take care." He almost enjoyed the young man's surprised expression and added over his shoulder, "See you at dinner." 

He went to his rooms and was comfortable before the fire with a volume of Ovid when Hermione came through the fireplace, dusting the Floo powder off her robes. "Severus," she said, sitting down on the arm of his chair almost casually. "Doing all right?" 

"Be thankful that none of them smuggled in rotten tomatoes," he sighed. "After all, once branded, you're forever a Death Eater…" Almost unconsciously his fingers crept to the Dark Mark, like perversely probing at an old wound to see if it's truly healed. The strange fear of being cornered, trapped by his past sins finally caught up with him still pervaded his senses. A hundred and fifty years of life left, and always the hiss of "Death Eater" would be ringing in his ears. Never forgiven, never forgotten. Why had he let Minerva tell? 

To his surprise, she gently removed his hand and then tugged up the sleeve of his robe, murmuring, "Let me see it." She unbuttoned his shirt cuff, and he wondered if it was of some freakish curiosity that she wanted to see it. Carefully she pushed it back and laid the Mark bare. He never rolled up his sleeves, even in making Potions. And yet here he was, exposing his darkest flaw, his deepest fear, to her. 

He felt the touch of her fingertips on it and jerked his arm back as though he had just been burnt. "I don't want you touching it!" 

She reached a hand out and touched his cheek. "I touched it two nights ago," she murmured quietly. "It felt no different, Severus…" He had been too caught up in the headiness of kissing her, touching her, making love to her, to notice. He saw the hurt in her eyes that he hadn't trusted her. _Damn. Going to chase her away, too?_ The joy of her loving him came crashing down and he realized that merely existing wasn't going to keep it going. He'd have to work at this. Starting now. 

He forced himself to relax as she ran her fingers over the Mark, and he could have sworn a tear or two prickled in his eyes when she leaned down and kissed it. She truly accepted his past, accepted him. Had journeyed into the center of the nightmare with him and clung stubbornly to him still. At that moment it didn't matter whether those present at the meeting forgave his past or not. 

As if reading his thoughts, she murmured, "I forgave it long ago, Severus. Now do you think you can stop beating up on yourself long enough to kiss me?" 

He smiled and leaned forward, his lips meeting hers. He kissed her long and slow, putting every ounce of everything good she saw in him into it. But it wasn't enough, despite his intents to leave her untouched until they had married again. She was his wife, after all, and there was no shame in that. If he were honest, half his refusal before had been fear of being before her, completely exposed and in the light. The darkness had been well enough: he could hide in it, as he had hidden for years. A creature of shadows couldn't stand the light, or so he had thought. Breaking the kiss long enough to scoop her into his arms, he whispered, "Once more before we quit?" and smiled at her nod, carrying her to his bed. 

He wasn't thinking of the Mark when he began to touch her, seeing the light in her eyes to chase the shadows away, not even embarrassed at how clumsy he must still be. He wasn't thinking of the darkness when he noticed with pleasure the contrast between the silken feel of her skin under his lips and the wool of her robes under his hands. He wasn't thinking of Voldemort's cold voice when her mouth settled over his and sent them both spiraling down into the warmth of desire. And by the time he found himself with her in his arms, eyes locked with no secrets or barriers between them, he couldn't even muster himself to think at all except to send thanks to God for how he had been blessed. 

Much later, when they went down to dinner, after noticing Potter's somewhat faraway stare present, he took a count of those sitting at the fifth table brought into the Great Hall and couldn't help for a moment the wide grin breaking out over his face. _Thirty-four._


	17. Chapter Seventeen

_Thank God for Slytherins_, Hermione thought as she looked out the window, seeing the stars shine with the peculiarly bright twinkle that came with the more northerly latitudes. Or at least, thank God for their Bronze Age Teutonic equivalent: Wulfgerda had to have been one. After all, Gryffindors would never have had it cross their mind to produce an Illusion such as the _Nacht Mantel_, the Cloak of Night. Too devious. 

But there was certainly use for a spell that could hide a person in the night and produce a convincing illusion of them where they were supposed to be. One could move armies under its protection, help those fleeing persecution (or prison). Or conceal a lover. Spells were double-edged swords: very few existed that were either pure good or pure evil. 

So now lying in her bed was an image of her, which would appear perfect to anyone, unless they chanced to touch it. But then, nobody entered her quarters without knocking, especially when she was asleep, and they certainly didn't shake her awake. For the time being, they were all right, so long as Cinderella left the ball, as it were, before the first rays of dawn shattered the spell. 

Of course, they couldn't do this every night, she realized. The Cloak of Night lost strength if used too much, and Illusions were a great drain upon one's magical powers. And too, in the months since Dumbledore's death and Hogwart's turn to martial law, there had been much to occupy their minds besides the typical activity of the newly wed. 

Shivering a little in the crisp late April air, she pulled her dressing gown a bit tighter around herself. Completely unable to sleep right then, with too much on her mind. She turned and saw that he wasn't asleep, his dark gaze studying her in the glow of moonlight. "Thinking?" she asked succinctly. 

A slight nod. He got out of bed, reaching almost instinctively for the dressing gown thrown over the chair and slipping it on over his pajamas. She had been quite amused to see that none of his night garb was the trademark black. The pajamas were blue stripe and the dressing gown a rich Slytherin green. 

But then, he didn't have to keep up his image in his sleep: that she knew from watching him on the few nights they had shared. In sleep, when the lines of old grief and guilt eased out from his face, he looked at peace, almost boyishly innocent. He was handsome when he chose to be, though most of the time he still convinced himself that a scowl and the eternal mourning of black was the only face he had right to present to the world. At least that had slipped a few notches in the fury of preparing for Voldemort. There was no time for self-loathing when training frantically. 

Slowly, in bits and trickles, they had gained more allies. Rhiannon Goin, Headmistress of the Great Orme Auror's Academy in Llandudno, an old friend of Minerva's, and a few of her students who felt that Gwalch's tactics negated the oath of loyalty they had taken to the Ministry upon entry to the Academy. Some valuable healers: several of Diaramuid McGonagall's coworkers at St. Mungo's. A few licensed Aurors who also decided that the loyalty oath was so much rubbish. 

The forces at Hogwarts still stood at a paltry eighty-seven, and half of them were mere children: sixth and seventh years. This, against fifty-eight Death Eaters, at last count, and God knew how many Dark servants Voldemort had drawn from among the creatures of night. It was bleak, but morning after morning, brave faces were put upon and nerves steeled to face what was to come. 

The day began at eight AM promptly, and she had slowly gotten used to the idea that forcefully waking up exhausted late sleepers in her capacity as Head of Gryffindor truly was in their best interest. Every minute of every day was needed: only Sundays were had off to prevent everyone from working literally to death. 

At least the coming of allies had provided them with people to oversee the day's training. She and Rhiannon oversaw the DADA (unofficially renamed Defense Against the Death Eaters) classes for the sixth and seventh years. Severus and Sherlock Holmes were madly at work teaching necessary Potions and stockpiling the results. Diaramuid and John Watson were teaching field Mediwizardry to those who had shown an aptitude, and everyone else had their niche to fill in the operation. Even the first years were getting the magical workout of their lives under the tutelage of hardened veterans. Not that they would be fighting, but they had to be ready for what was to come, nonetheless. If caught unawares, it could become a massacre. 

"Come back to bed," he said quietly, taking hold of her hand. "You need your rest. We all do." He glanced out the window briefly himself. Wearily she lay down and despite all her fears and trepidation, exhaustion assured that she fell fast asleep.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Breakfast was for the most part a quieter affair, as usual. Though there were still some hints of normalcy: a peal of laughter, young lovers gazing soulfully at each other, and the sort. The latter was particularly in effect for the young Head Boy sitting beside her: he was involved in a round of soulful gazing with a person at the Gryffindor table. To her surprise, she saw it wasn't his old flame, Hester Latterly, but Hester's friend, sixth-year prefect Margaret Ballinger. Well, so much the better: she wondered how long the two had been together. It had come to a bit of a fight two years ago between Oliver and young William Monk over Hester. She still smiled to remember that Hester had refused to have anything to do with either of them for a month after. 

She then looked down the table, past Severus and Draco, seeing Harry sitting beside Ron, staring off into space as he idly ate. It was an old habit she still remembered: his letting his mind wander at meals. She worried, though: there was a new darkness in those green eyes, ever since he had returned from the mission he had taken upon himself to eliminate Liam Haverforth. He had done the job: the _Daily Prophet_ had confirmed it. A neat, quick task; no dawdling or torture about it. 

But there was something about using _Avada Kedavra_ that forever changed you--a little piece of your soul somehow altered. She knew that with a deep, instinctive knowledge. Once you had taken a life, there was no turning back from it. That was maybe why she hadn't been able to shout the Killing Curse the night she had been captured. Perhaps if she looked closer, the shadow in his eyes matched that in a pair of eyes she knew equally well. And she found herself wondering if she _could_ kill. Lives would depend upon it in the times to come.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Harry headed quickly on his way to get to the first class of the day: teaching DADA to the fourth years. It still seemed unbelievable that quiet, bookish Hermione was the one responsible for making the upper forms ready to fight. But then, he had barely looked back after he left Hogwarts, eager to escape the burden and expectation. She had changed drastically and he hadn't taken time to notice. 

None of them could know what it was like to be expected to save an entire world from the time you were fourteen. _Save the world, Harry, because it's your destiny._ He still had nightmares about the night that Voldemort had returned, and nightmares where the shade of Cedric Diggory stood by silently, all the damnation needed to tear into him solely in his eyes. 

It hadn't been his doing, anyhow, that he had survived the Dark Lord the first time. That had been his mother's accomplishment. Perhaps in some ways not much had changed between the Dursleys' house and Hogwarts. In both cases, he was separate, somehow alien. Naturally, Hogwarts was infinitely preferable. But there had been the suffocating sense of being an animal his last two years here. A caged animal, admired and cosseted, but held for the purposes of others. _Like some fucking Gryffindor lion sent to fight the gladiator in the arena_, he had thought angrily. They had never thought that maybe he couldn't do it, or that perhaps they should share in the fight and get it over with. It was always placing hopes squarely upon the shoulders of the Boy Who Lived. 

So of course any Auror's academy would have died of pride to have him. So too, any wizarding university. The Ministry had been sending him job offers by the stack. But it was only in Quidditch that he had felt free by that time: the sensation of the wind rushing by him, cheers ringing in his ears, the simple honesty of competition and the team behind him. Catch the Snitch. Not save the world, vanquish the foe. Just catch a simple golden ball. So when Cardiff had offered him a contract, he eagerly went. Money, fame, pretty girls: all for such low expectations. _Catch me, Harry, and I'll hand you the world._ The Siren song of the Snitch, and he had been lured. 

But there had been something missing, despite the thrill of victory. He didn't know what it was until he had heard of the massacre visited upon the Weasleys. Honor. Trite as it may have sounded; honor was paramount to a Gryffindor's soul. And he had tarnished his by abandoning his friends and those who did need him. Maybe he couldn't have saved the world single-handedly, but he should have at least taken part in the fight instead of leaving it to anyone and everyone. 

And they had died because the wizarding world thought that without him, they couldn't win, and thus really didn't make effort. They were paralyzed, thinking that without him, they were nothing. He realized now with the wisdom of hindsight that they didn't expect him to literally go out by himself and kill Voldemort. Any one-on-one combat with the Dark Lord was extremely unlikely, especially in a pitched battle. They had needed him, aside from his now somewhat rusty fighting skills, as a rallying point. 

The guilt of deaths caused because he had run and refused to accept his duty still lay heavy upon him. He felt, of all the things in the world, something of a kinship with Snape now: the older man's self-blame from being a Death Eater was probably never far from his mind. 

Snape: he had always been good at seeing what others hadn't. Physical things like the Snitch, and then less tangible things. Since the day the two had gone missing and had been captured by Voldemort, there was something changed about them. A difference in the way they were around each other, a certain way of a smile, a look. He'd bet down to his last Galleon what it was. 

The Potions Master had a good deal of guts to go spy on Voldemort as an Animagus, especially with a death warrant over his head. And that he was still finding a somewhat bitter pill: that a Death Eater, a man most had hated, had found the courage to do what had needed to be done, while he, Hogwart's golden boy, had failed. Still, he realized it as his own shortcoming. There was still something that irked him about Snape, though. 

"Hey, 'Mione!" he said, catching her by the arm as she hurried off to class. 

She smiled at him. "Harry." A slight dull ache at that: seven years she had been right under his nose, and he had never really seen her. Too consumed with anger and, well, yes, Quidditch too. That was his grief with Severus Snape: he had what Harry now realized he had wanted all along. He sighed, forcing himself to relax. _It's her choice._

A thousand things he had to say but never could raced through his mind. He finally settled for a simple, "You're happy with him?" 

She looked almost frightened for a second, but then she smiled and relaxed, light in her eyes. "Yes." The wary look. "Please, don't let it get out. You may remember the law about romance and war…" He did, and as much as he envied the lucky bastard, he wouldn't undercut him and hurt Hermione by turning them in. That was unspeakably dishonorable. 

"Just don't," he said, trying to lighten her mood, "expect me to wear bridesmaid's robes." 

Her eyes lit up and she laughed at that. "I think you'd look darling in lavender…" With that assurance that she was well and happy, he knew he could let her go. Though if Snape ever treated her badly, he promised himself that nice, mended nose would acquire its first break from his fist, hero of the resistance or not.   


~~~~~~~~~~

It was a day like any other at Hogwarts. Endless training and preparation, nerves fraying under being drawn unbearably taut for two and a half months now, waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

Students and teachers both quietly groaned to themselves. Little quarrels occurred as usual, and Poppy Pomfrey was kept quite busy tending to a variety of physical injuries and exhaustion. 

William Monk and Hester Latterly, nerves very much on edge, broke off their engagement when she hit him with a _Rigorifica Mortis_ due to bad timing during the "free-sparring" for Curse blocking in the courtyard: he had been turning to ask Hermione a question, while Hester had thought him ready. Needless to say, young Monk was not pleased with his fiancée's application of the Rigid Body Curse, especially when he couldn't protest until Hermione freed him. However, by lunch all was well and the two lovebirds were reconciled. 

Harold Lowe and Herbert Lightoller had stopped hostilities enough to be seen practicing the Levitation Charm together with Joseph Boxhall and Thomas Andrews. It did come to a bit of a spat when Lowe accidentally levitated the entire contents of Lightoller's living space, including his spell books, cauldron, and a somewhat ratty teddy bear that had been hiding beneath the rumpled bedcovers. Lightoller naturally fervently disavowed owning the bear. 

Ruadrik Desmond, a fifth-year Ravenclaw prefect, had quite a story to tell his friends when he saw Oliver Rathbone kissing Margaret Ballinger in one of the many alcoves and slipping a ring on her finger. Oliver caught up to him a half-hour later on his way to Potions and threatened him within an inch of his life if he told. Unfortunately, he had already told his girlfriend, Hufflepuff Ariel Remora, and she couldn't resist telling her friends. The story quickly found its way to Yaslani Almira, the biggest gossip in the fifth year, and the entire school was aware by dinner. Oliver gave Ruadrik glowers over the meal stating clearly that he was a marked man. 

Minerva McGonagall finally got the courage to enter Dumbledore's office with Diaramuid and begin to clear it out. It was closure in a way, and she smiled even through the grief to see some of the mementos of the wise old wizard. She hoped that he'd think well upon how she had conducted affairs at Hogwarts thus far. Since she hadn't seen him since Dumbledore died, it was with surprise that she found Fawkes sitting listlessly on his perch, too thin and plumage faded to a dull ash-grey. The bird obviously hadn't hunted for himself in awhile, and it was with difficulty that she coaxed him to accept some roast beef from the kitchens. When she left the office for dinner, however, the phoenix was on her shoulder, the faintest glimmer of scarlet in his feathers. 

Indeed, it was a day mostly like any other, as the students trudged out of the Great Hall and went to study or practice until curfew. Except that this was no ordinary day. The ancients had known about the magic of this day: Beltane. 

A time of regeneration, rebirth, and the power of youth, the Muggles had celebrated it in a watered-down version as a fertility festival. But the ancients knew there was much more to this date than mating in the fields as a prayer for a good harvest. 

It was a feast of power to the magicians so long dead that even had their names not been cursed to never be spoken, they would have been forgotten. In the darkness of night, there had been blood and fire, sacrifice and Dark rituals. Rituals declared so dark that any records of them had been destroyed so very long ago, and all magicians that had followed the Beltane rites had been executed. Those who the uncontrolled power hadn't killed outright. 

But hidden records had remained, and so did the fact that the very Earth itself ran with raw power on this night, shaking off the sleepy cloak of winter and preparing to burst forth in its full glory for the summer. The power of Earth was neither good nor bad, producing both life and death: bounty and disaster. Indeed, the power itself was not what corrupted. It was the darkness, the sins committed to acquire it, the very greed and lust for more ability, that twisted the gift. 

The power was there for the seizing, to be tapped in the Beltane rituals. For those who were not afraid to pay the price that might come after. The fire dancers of old, those hellishly Dark magicians whose bones had centuries ago turned to dust in the same soil they had defiled, had not been afraid. 

Tom Marvolo Riddle was not afraid. 


	18. Chapter Eighteen

The moon rose in its pale, subtle light over the silent sentinel of Stonehenge. The man once known as Tom Marvolo Riddle had turned to the stone circle very purposefully. After all, it had been the site of such rites before, back before the days of his forebear, Salazar Slytherin, back even before the great Merlin. Tonight, the ancient heart of the Earth would beat again in this circle of stones. 

He surveyed the gathering of Death Eaters, black robes and masks almost blending them into the shadows of the great stones. He could feel it now: almost as if the very ground beneath his feet was a living, breathing thing. The power he had sought for fifty years now: the power he had given his body, his dedication, and more than a little of his very sanity, in order to find. Even the Muggles felt something of it when they visited this place, though the stupid beasts had no idea of what it was. His crimson gaze flickered for a moment to the bodies of the Muggle guards lying where they had fallen; killed with _Avada Kedavra_ before they knew what had hit them. Pathetic: all too easy. 

It was a good thing, he reflected, that he had not dismissed the arts of the ancients as worthless, as they had encouraged him to do at Hogwarts. The old Dark Arts had given him the powers he had, restored his body. Saved the damned Potter boy too, unfortunately. He should have remembered the ritual sacrifice to counter death: a life given freely, for a life. It was in _the_ book. 

The Field Museum had never been aware that its prized, ancient copy of the Talmud wasn't the Hebrew Holy Book at all, but a grimoire of the ancients put under spell to take the form of the innocuous Muggle volume. A desperate writing from the last of the fire dancers on the lam to preserve what he knew before he was caught and killed, it had lain innocuously in the sands of Jerusalem for over two thousand years. Until it was discovered, by filthy Muggles, of all the luck, and put in a display case to be gawked at, true purpose hidden. 

Oh, but he had seen it on his first trip to the city of Chicago, in those years seeking power so wrongly denied. It had called him: there could be no other explanation. Nobody had really noticed a rather handsome young man staring at the display of Hebrew artifacts with an almost obsessed, transfixed look that hot summer day in 1952. He had seen through the guise right away: he could only conclude that the book had chosen to _reveal_ itself to him. It knew he was worthy of its secrets: he was destined. 

He had known then that he had to have it. It was laughably easy: child's play. A midnight visit, Transfiguration of an abandoned shopping bag to take the appearance of the book, replaced carefully on the evergreen velvet of the display, and the grimoire was safe in his care. The Heir of Salazar Slytherin became a force to be reckoned with. 

All those long years he had studied: he had failed in 1981 because he had not studied everything, convinced he knew enough to claim his victory. He had forgotten his general meticulousness in the rush for power and conquest: a mistake he would _not_ make again. Now the faithful grimoire would give him the power to destroy those who would oppose him. He stared at the Death Eaters in the glow of firelight, noticing them suppressing a shudder at the hellish red glare. His thin lips curved into a smile. Fear was control, and control was power. But now it was time for power beyond such meager parlor tricks. 

"Bring him," he said calmly, reaching up and lowering the hood of his robes. The requisite brown that Laneric had specified in his hasty scribble: the color of Earth, to become one with it. Desdemona Lestrange and Lucius Malfoy brought a trembling, pleading figure forward garbed in robes of sacrificial white. The lamb to the slaughter: the glow of fire winked off the silver of his right hand. 

Voldemort shrugged to himself. Wormtail had been useful at times: eagerly carrying out his bidding, giving his right hand to bring his Lord back to life. But he was weak: he did not do what he did out of loyalty, but out of fear of what would be done to him if he did not. The ritual required sacrifice, and rather powerful sacrifice to work optimally. The blood of a powerful wizard worked better to bond to Earth and draw the gift of power out than that of a weak one; and that better, of course, than that of a mere Muggle. He needed those who would be unquestioningly loyal to him this night: the Lestranges, Lucius, and the rest. Wormtail was powerful in magic, but weak in spirit. He was, in a word, expendable. 

"M…my Lord!" Wormtail cried, struggling as he was dragged towards the altar, struggling pathetically. "What have I done to…" 

"Wormtail," he said, in the sensuous, purring tone that one might use to a lover, "you have done no wrong." He drew the bronze-bladed knife from the belt around his waist and advanced towards the figure now struggling helplessly on the altar, held down by four of the strongest Death Eaters. Desdemona and Lucius backed off, bowing their obeisance to their master as he passed. He nodded slightly to them, indicating a job well done. 

"Already you have been honored by giving your own hand to restore my body, and for that, you are further rewarded now. Now the ultimate glory shall be yours: your blood will enable our victory." He smiled at the doomed man's gasp of horror.   


~~~~~~~~~~

He had realized nothing amiss until a Petrifying Curse had been put upon him an hour earlier. Even then, he hadn't conceived of this. He was to die here, now, in this circle, before the silent gathering of his fellow Death Eaters. This was what had come of his life. He closed his eyes for a moment, not wanting to see the beauty of the night sky in his sheer terror. But he couldn't bear to wait blindly and opened them again, trembling like a willow in the wind. 

The repellent corpse-pale face now loomed over him, red eyes staring at him as dispassionately as though he were an insect to be chloroformed. His own eyes stared wide at the man he had called master, horrifically aware now that the man, the creature, that he had served held no loyalty in return to him. He would now find that realization at the price of his life as he was roughly pinned down on this hard stone. His face was wet, whether with sweat or tears, he wasn't quite sure. 

"_Klyetka!_" He started at the harsh, guttural word. One of Voldemort's favorite tricks on his victims: a Dark spell of Rasputin's. It was a paralysis spell dissociating the mind from the body. No matter what a person's thoughts, the body wouldn't obey. Somewhat harsher than the Body-Bind, because the Mind Cage was horrifyingly permanent. St. Mungo's had several specimens of its victims entombed within its walls. 

Voldemort smiled his monstrous lipless smile again. "After all, we don't want you running away, do we, Wormtail?" No, this time he couldn't escape by assuming his Animagus form. In that moment, Peter Pettigrew repented every wrong he had ever done in the name of power and glory. His mind screamed out his betrayal by this man he had trusted. _I was wrong. Give me one last chance,_ he thought, _one chance and I swear I'll make it right…James, I'm sorry…Lily, Sirius…please!_ But it was too late. The slim blade flashed up in the firelight, hung there for an eternal moment, and then plunged down, carving a fatal arc directly into his chest.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
As the soil below the altar was stained dark with the flowing blood, Voldemort lowered his head in respect to the Earth and began the incantation. Slowly he was aware of a tingling sensation up and down his spine, and a sudden feeling of wakefulness. No, more so than that--he was hyperaware of every detail around him, from the hushed murmurs of the Death Eaters, the soft sounds of animals in the grass, to the ebbing strength of Peter Pettigrew. The current of his magical power begun to thrum within him: flowing with almost roaring force, a riptide to the calm stream it had been before. 

Paralyzed, strung up like a puppet, he was helpless to do anything except try to keep hold of the boundaries of his own self as his heart beat in time with that of the Earth beneath him. A moment's slip and he was lost. He heard a cry, an animal keen of pain, and realized only after a moment that it was from his own throat as the raw power burned him. _Have to stop_, his mind thought, alarmingly sluggish. _Have to stop before it's too much…too fast…_ Wizards and witches had died taking on too much power. He painfully forced out a "So mote it be!" The iron fist of the bond released him, and he dropped to all fours, panting and trembling. 

The Death Eaters crowded around, anxiously questioning him. He waved them off with an irritated gesture, stumbling to his feet as the pain slowly faded. The gasp of shock rang in his ears as the Death Eaters saw the scorches on his skin slowly fade; the injuries heal themselves in mere seconds. The sheer magic to heal without spell, potion, or any sort of wand work was unfathomable. He had succeeded. 

Voldemort eyed them carefully and smiled to himself. It was done, and the call to battle was urging him on. He faced the Death Eaters and spoke: two fatal words. "To Hogwarts." A cheer went up and immediately several of the Death Eaters were dispatched to fetch their sworn allies: the Dementors, the vampires, and the werewolves. Some one hundred and twenty souls, in all, would attack Hogwarts this very night, led by a wizard with unthinkable power.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
The hunting had been fairly rotten, though she had seen Arram again. She was sure the silver tiercel was flirting with her, though he probably made those sweet little coos to every female gyrfalcon north of Hadrian's Wall. Stomach not quite satiated, she still headed home, towards Hogwarts. Now was time to rest. 

First night of May and it was cold as bloody December. The thought of a warm fire and her perch beneath her feet made her speed up just a little more in anticipation. So she was a captive bird and probably a bit spoiled because of it. So what? She more than earned her keep looking after Severus. Made her wish she could have been there when he was the lost, lonely boy who had grown up bitter enough to turn Death Eater. 

Everything in the Forbidden Forest was in hiding tonight, it seemed, so all she had managed was a few mice. It was night and the forest should have shown some signs of life, but it was almost deathly calm. Even the Acromantulas weren't out and about. _Odd,_ Tosca thought. _No centaurs either…even the Dervishes aren't out, and God knows they're so stupid that they're not afraid of **anything**_. She sighed and banked towards Hogwarts, irritated and wondering if she could beg food off of Severus or Hermione. 

She was startled when a group of twittering finches came flying towards her at top speed. The little birds had such fast, high-pitched voices and childish intelligence that it was hard to tell what they were saying, besides the shrieks of _Fly away, fly away!_

She wheeled abruptly around and followed the flock, catching easily up to them. The shrieks now became those of, _Hawk bird! Bad hawk bird!_ They thought she was out to catch and eat them, the stupid idiots. 

_Shut up!_ she shouted, easily heard over their chatter. _I'm not hunting you. What are you flying from?_ If something was amiss in the Forest, she damned well wanted to know. 

One finch called back, _Flying from bad snake-man. Bad magic, bad magic…you fly away too, hawk bird._

_What bloody bad magic?_ But that was all she was to be given as the finches hurried away from her, ignoring any further questions. 

She turned again for Hogwarts, turning the comments over in her mind. _Bad snake man, using magic. Oh, dear God._ Was it possible that Voldemort was on the move? 

She didn't stop long to ponder, beating her wings faster and faster until the Earth below here was a mere blur. 

The sight she came upon as she slowed passing Hogwarts' gates to find Severus' window was enough to freeze anyone's heart: a contingent of slinking shadows heading right towards the gate. _The wards,_ she thought. _Don't those numbskulls think of these…_

Her question was answered as she heard an incantation. A hole in the shield the size of a man flared a bright blue then began fading by bits. By the time it faded to black and Voldemort sent the first Death Eater through, she was already in Severus' room. 

Landing on Severus' shoulder, she dug in her talons through his pajamas, knowing how soundly he slept, and shrieked in his ear. 

"Tosca!" he sat up with a cry of pain. "Damn you!" 

_They're here! I just saw them!_ she protested, letting go and landing by the foot of the bed. 

"But how did they deal with the wards?" 

_I don't know exactly how, but they **did!** Go look for yourself!_

He leapt out of bed and practically raced for the window, which faced the gates. She heard his sharp intake of breath. "Oh dear God…" Back to the bed and grabbing for his wand on the bedside table. A curt spell and he was dressed in his robes. He grabbed for the tin of Floo powder on the hearth, fumbling and spilling some of it on the carpet, too involved to notice. He lit a fire with a rapid _Incendio_ and tossed in the Floo, barking curtly, "Minerva!" 

The Headmistress must have slept lightly that night. Her voice came floating into the room a moment later. "What is it, Severus?" 

"They're coming inside the gates…he's created a hole somehow. Only big enough for one of them at a time, but they'll all be in shortly." 

Something that was either Gaelic curse or prayer came from Minerva. "Get Hermione to awake the Gryffindors, and get the Slytherins. _Now._" 

Without a word of acknowledgment, Severus grabbed another pinch of Floo powder, commanding it to link to Hermione's chambers, and stepped into the flames.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
"Hester, is that someone coming?" William Monk was a trifle edgy about being in the Gryffindor girls' dorm, even if the bed curtains were closed and a good solid _Silencio_ was in effect. But then God knew there was so little time in the day to spend with his fiancée that they resorted to sneaking around half the night, talking about their plans, kissing and cuddling. 

"Stop fretting, William. Even if it is," she laughed quietly, "you're a Slytherin. You're devious enough to make an excuse for it..." 

He rolled his eyes slightly at that just as the bed curtains were pulled aside and Hermione Granger stared in at them, ignoring their yelps of surprise. Good God, at least she hadn't caught them doing worse…he blushed at the thought. _Make an excuse! Come on already._

"I…I…" Hester stammered. 

"I really don't care," Hermione cut her off. "This is your business. But there's worse to worry about. I want you to help wake the Gryffindors up. All of them. Mister Monk, I might suggest you apply yourself to the same in Slytherin." _In the middle of the night? Everyone? That means…_

With one quick glance at Hester's worried expression, he practically ran for the Slytherin dormitory.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Within only a few minutes, everyone was crowded into the Great Hall. All the staff had reinforced the magical protection on the castle's front door, hoping to buy a few more minutes. The Great Hall's doors were also rife with spells. But they had been caught by surprise, and Hermione could tell that the pervading feeling was that of an animal trapped in its den. 

Minerva stood, and for once there was no need to wait for a hush to settle. The Headmistress minced no words. "Fifth year prefects, please escort all students your year and under to the dungeons. Professors Malfoy and Snape will put wards up around you for protection." The younger students began to look a little sick, but it was only wise. To send them into the battle would be nothing less than mass murder, because they had no hope of winning. 

The students exited hurriedly, followed by Draco and Severus. Those left in the Great Hall looked at each other, silently counting. Less than one hundred total were to try to save Hogwarts. A fleeting thought crossed Hermione's mind of how many of them would be alive come morning. 

She approached Minerva just as Oliver Rathbone rushed up to them, looking profoundly distraught. "Mister Rathbone, what is it?" Minerva asked. 

"I…I've got reports in from John and Hester and William and…well, we're missing students." 

"_What?_" 

"Those four first years…you know them? Boxhall, Andrews, Lowe and Lightoller. They weren't in their beds."   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
"You and your _stupid_ ideas. You're _not_ going to be able to catch a familiar out here. Especially not without bait." Harold Lowe glowered at Herbert Lightoller. "And it's your own stupid fault that your owl flew off. You treated him like…" 

"Oh, don't start with that dumb Muggle idea of being your owl's best buddy. Owls are meant to carry your mail. Do you befriend your Muggle…what are they called again?" 

"Postman," Joseph Boxhall spoke up. "But I think he's right. You're not going to be able to catch an owl out here." 

"And anything you catch wild isn't going to be as happy about carrying mail as a wizard-bred bird," Thomas Andrews input. "Just tell your parents what happened and you can get a new owl over summer holidays. Until then, a school owl will serve you fine. Joe uses them, after all, since he has a cat." 

"Of course he'll get a new bloody owl," Lowe muttered. "His parents are rolling in wizard gold." Though he wouldn't trade his sooty owl, Ellie, for any other. 

"Well why did you come if this was such a stupid idea?" 

Andrews, often the voice of reason, broke in. "Because you were _going_ to go even if we tried to dissuade you, so it's safer for you to be out with others." 

"Now let's get going," Boxhall pleaded. "You _know_ we're not supposed to be out of the castle unescorted. And at night too…" 

"Ooh, are the ghosties going to get you?" Lowe, being a Muggleborn, didn't have a magic-born child's knowledge that most things that go _bump_ in the night truly are real. To him, they were mere stories that he had stopped believing in about the time he lost his first teeth. 

"No, but wortsnoggles. And banshees. And…" Lightoller began nervously listing some of the creatures of darkness. 

"Lions and tigers and bears, oh my," Lowe said sarcastically. "Now come on, let's get going." 

But it wasn't halfway to the back door when a hand landed on his shoulder and a voice nearly purred in his ear, "Isn't a bit late for young students to be out?" 


	19. Chapter Nineteen

He had never been a coward. But at that moment, Harold Lowe's nerves were the quivering consistency of gelatin. Slowly, the hand on his shoulder forced him to face whomever had found him out long after curfew. _I swear, Bert, you're dead after we get out of this. Stupid prig…_ "We won't do it again," he said, hoping he sounded humble. 

A curt bark of laugher as he looked up. Moonbeam pale hair, a pointed pale chin, and pale blue eyes glowing with the look of a cat with a mouse beneath its paw--a face aristocratic and icy cold. _He looks like Professor Malfoy,_ he realized dimly. "I should think you will not," drawled his captor. "Move." He gestured the four of them _towards_ the Forbidden Forest. 

Indeed, Harold moved, stumbling over tree roots and stones in the darkness, too terrified to look down to see what was underfoot, all too aware of the wand pointed at their backs. If he raised his hands to try and retrieve his wand from the sleeves of his robe, he'd be dead before he could blink. 

"Where are we going?" Joe asked nervously. Silence was the only reply. Dimly Harold heard the sounds of the forest all around him-mysterious rustles in the bushes, snuffles and grunts from some Puuas, weighing as much as six men and with wickedly sharp tusks as long as one of those men's arms. A shriek somewhere in the darkness as some hunter of the night caught its prey. Not a one of those creatures sent a prickle up and down his spine half so much as the man behind them. _What's he going to do with us?_ His greatest fear at the moment of capture, being disciplined by Headmistress McGonagall and in turn, Professor Granger, paled sickeningly as he realized what was in store for himself and his companions was likely far worse than deducted House Points and detention cleaning bedpans for Madame Pomfrey. 

Suddenly Thomas stumbled over a tree root, letting out a cry of dismay. Malfoy's attention was solely on him for a moment, so he took the chance and quickly reached for his wand. Pulled it out, clutched it in his sweating hand, and shouted one of the few spells he knew. "_Expelliarmus!_" 

Ollivander had been right--Welsh Red dragon heartstring and palmetto was an powerful combination. Malfoy actually lost his wand, and even was knocked off his feet. But before the elation could sink in and he could shout for the lot of them to run for it he heard a laugh that called to mind the cackle of every Disney cartoon villain he had seen. But less hysterical; it was coldly malevolent. "Lucius, my my. Outdone by a mere child." 

He turned, ready to scream in horror when he beheld the gaunt figure before him in the clearing. Skin white as chalk, eyes burning an unnatural red in a snake's face. That lipless mouth sneered at him, studying him. "A Gryffindor too, and Mudblood filth." How did he know _that_? "Now, boy, why don't you let me have that? It's not good for children to be playing with dangerous toys." One curt spell and all four of their wands were in his hand. He didn't need to ask who their captor was. Every fiber of his being was screaming it: the Dark lord Voldemort. 

"Now, Lucius," Voldemort continued in a smooth tone as his henchman appeared, brushing dirt and leaf matter off his robes with a disgruntled expression, "have you nothing better to do than chase some stupid children?" 

"Master," Malfoy said smoothly, with only a faint whine of obeisance, "I thought they might be of use. You know that they will not risk their own. If you demand anything for their safe return, they will give it." 

"Very good, Lucius," again that mocking praise. "And that is why they will never defeat me. Always unable to make the sacrifices." He stared long and hard at the four of them. "I am disappointed in you, young Lightoller," he said with something approaching gentleness. "Consorting with Gryffindors and filthy Mudbloods such as these?" He gestured to Harold and Joseph. "Slytherins are meant for greater. Your family is one of the most powerful in our world. Join me and see where your true destiny lies. I can give you power and riches beyond your wildest dreams." The tone was seductive, cajoling, almost hypnotic. 

_If he betrays us, I'll kill him myself!_ Harold stood there, hands clenched into fists. His mind ran with wild accusations. Had Bert purposely led them out here to defect to Lord Voldemort, bringing the three of them as a present for his new master? No, no, he was a sodding idiot sometimes and a bit of a snob, but he wasn't evil like that. He couldn't be. 

"Don't you dare, Bert Lightoller!" he shouted. 

"Silence!" Voldemort hissed, hatred shining in his eyes. 

Bert's blue eyes were wide with sheer fright, but he managed to say in a firm tone, "No." 

"Then you'll suffer their fate," Voldemort shrugged coldly, sounding no more bothered by insinuating a gruesome death awaited than a normal man would have been had he heard that he was out of sugar. 

Soon enough the four found themselves in a Body-Bind, being Levitated back in the direction of Hogwarts. He could no longer ignore the voice inside telling him that tonight was his night to die. And his parents wouldn't even understand what had happened to him. Cold to the bone, he started to pray harder than he ever had in his life.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
No sign of the missing boys. Hermione was almost sick with worry--God knew what might have befallen them. But as the Death Eaters came closer to the doors of Hogwarts, she prayed they were hidden away safely in some forgotten room in the castle. She gripped her wand, ready to cast a spell as soon as they destroyed the door, as they would inevitably do. They were outnumbered slightly, and the element of surprise would be on _their_ side now instead of Voldemort's, thanks to Tosca's keen eyes. Where was Tosca? For that matter, where on _Earth_ was Severus? 

"Stand fast!" Minerva shouted. Hermione heard faint whimpers from some of the students from their fear. She could barely remember being sixteen any longer--she had aged decades in the few years since. 

Years of terror, months or preparation, and so many dead. It all finally came down to this, here and now. But there was no sound of spells hitting the ancient oak of the door. It was all eerily silent. She exchanged a dumbfounded glance with Persephone Sprout. _What happens now?_   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
He flew with urgency in every wing beat, eyes frantically scanning the ground below for any sight of the missing students. But in his heart, he knew. He knew young Lightoller's proclivity for sneaking outside the gates after curfew. They wouldn't be anywhere in the castle. They were out beyond the castle walls, and the Dark Lord had them. He'd bet on that down to his last Galleon, and the thought terrified him. He best of all knew Voldemort's tactics, and that indeed included taking hostages. And once they lost their use as bargaining chips, he would kill them. 

It was foolish to leave the castle when they needed every wizard and witch there was in its defense, but he couldn't just leave the boys to their fate. Finally he spied them coming out of the Forbidden Forest and entering the hole in Hogwart's gates. But he made no move to attack the doors, and the Death Eaters sat there silently. _In the castle we have the advantage,_ he realized with a sick feeling. _He wants us to come out in the open._ And the first years were the bait. 

The Death Eaters looked as one at their master, awaiting command. Snape could sense the eagerness for the kill rolling off some of them like the stench of rot. "Minerva!" he shouted mockingly, his voice booming out with the assistance of an _Exaudio._ "Shouldn't you keep a better eye on your young ones?" Silence in the cold night, and Voldemort went on. "And where is the noble Harry Potter? A _Gryffindor_ hiding instead of fighting? My my. Have your allies face mine, Minerva, else the first death tonight will be this little Mudblood here--Lowe, isn't it? Then his three chums here, too: one dead for every five minutes you delay. I give you one minute."   


~~~~~~~~~

"Why is he doing this?" Hermione hissed to Minerva by her side. 

The older witch's face was a study in misery. "Because that's Tom Riddle for you. He won't win with anything besides a _beau geste_. Won't have it said that he won by murdering his foes in their beds." 

"What the hell has he being doing these past years if not that?" she demanded. 

Minerva sighed. "He wants a complete victory to savor. He won't have it said that if he had faced us fairly, we might have won." She smiled sadly, remembering the boy she had loved. "He always did have a slightly twisted sense of chivalry. Brutal, dishonorable tactics are all right for his Death Eaters. But not for him personally." 

"What do we do, Minerva?" Aylmeri murmured. 

"We face him," Minerva replied, squaring her thin shoulders. "What else is there to do? I'll not have those boys' blood on my hands." 

Harry was suddenly at Minerva's side. "Please," he said, his look fierce. "It has to be _me_ to face him. He knows it as well as I do." There would be no denying him. It was obvious to anyone present. And what reason was there to keep a young man from his destiny? 

Minerva hesitated only a moment before nodding. "Take care," she murmured, clasping Harry's hands in hers for a moment. "Come along," she called, and headed for the front door, head held high. Then came the scream.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
He saw Voldemort raise his wand and point it at young Lowe, the word out of his mouth. "_Crucio!_" Lowe screamed in pain, a high-pitched keening. He knew the feeling--every nerve gone white-hot with pain, pain such as could never be imagined. Like being methodically flayed alive--you were _made_ of pain. With a renewed sense of urgency, he dropped to the ground about fifty feet behind the Death Eaters, behind all the turned backs, and assumed his human form. He drew his wand. Voldemort would never see it coming. 

Just as the first syllable was forming on his lips, the front door of the castle hurriedly opened. Voldemort immediately cut off the spell. "So good of you to join us," he purred. Snape stared at the expanse of black-robed back. There was no need for any to die save Voldemort, and here was his chance. _One good spell. That's all I need._ One good spell and the man responsible for the death of his parents, and the deaths of so many others, would be no more. But for the first time in his life, fear of the sacrifice stayed his hand for a moment. He wanted to live, desperately. But at what cost? He looked towards the front door and saw her, wavy brown hair wild as always. Hermione. A smile came across his lips. 

Her love was the best thing in his life without question. He allowed himself a moment of memory--the first time he saw her in the Great Hall, Sorting Hat on her head. Exasperation and pride in her Potions genius over the years. Then there was that first project of the Forgetfulness Potion, and feeling the fierce urge to protect her when he found her Animagism out. The way she looked coming back to Hogwarts. Hearing her confession of loving him, the grief of that night in the dungeons, the feel of her kiss, her whispers in his ear and the touch of her hands as they made love. Dry-eyed, he then raised his wand. Spoke the fatal words with a calm voice. "_Avada Kedavra._" 


	20. Chapter Twenty

Tosca had barely perched on a windowsill high above the fight, waiting anxiously for any chance to lend assistance when she heard the peculiar whining drone of _Avada Kedavra_ fly, all too familiar with it from her days spying with Severus, and looked wildly around for which Death Eater had thrown it. But it didn't take long for her sharp falcon's eyes to find that the blaze of green light was around Voldemort himself, casting a sickly green glow over that corpse pale skin. 

He did not fall--as she watched with stunned eyes, the curse merely _bounced_ off him, and rebounded towards a solitary black-clad figure at the gates. With a sick feeling, she knew that if Voldemort somehow had enough power to turn aside a Killing Curse, they were in damn serious trouble. 

Severus managed to dodge the spell, though her heart was in her throat as it missed him by bare inches. All the Death Eaters and Voldemort turned as one to see who had failed in their attempt. "You!" Voldemort roared, raising his wand. 

He didn't stop to answer--wisely, he ducked through the gates and behind the protection of the wall. Soon enough a dark, shadowy figure rose into the air, almost cloaked by the dark of the night. But Voldemort's gaze and his wand followed him fleeing in his falcon state, and Tosca could only stare in horror, dimly aware that the humans below had taken the Death Eaters' distraction to start throwing spells and taking full advantage of the chance. The Death Eaters turned and began returning the favor in full force. Severus wouldn't make it; fast as a falcon flew, he couldn't. Grimly she launched herself from her perch, taking only a bare instant to consider the consequences to herself, and then dismissing them.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
The agony of the spell released, Harold Lowe managed to take advantage of Voldemort's distraction with Professor Snape, scurrying with his friends towards the safety of the castle doors. Every nerve in his body was screaming in pain--a thousand times worse than the time he had fallen from the tree in the yard and broken his arm, a million times worse than bruises from rugby. It was as if every bone in his body had been smashed to splinters, every nerve carefully shredded. 

He glanced over his shoulder at the Dark Lord as he fled towards safety on unsure feet, expecting to find the wand aimed at his back and a death curse flying his way. He was startled to see Voldemort looking almost _winded_ for a moment. He shook his head, blinked, and looked again. No, it must have just been his imagination. He was there and malevolent-looking as ever. 

The spells started flying, and he got down low, grateful for once in his life that he wasn't yet fifteen like his brother with the height of that age. Thomas had the presence of mind to snatch up their wands from where a Death Eater had dropped them when a well-aimed Killing Curse felled him. Harold turned as he reached the steps, praying that Snape would make it. Snape hadn't been overly fond of him; that was true, as he was Gryffindor. Apparently in years past he'd been quite the biased man towards the Serpent's Den. But he had been at least fair in it--he had been as hard on his Slytherins as any other house this year. And Snape had just probably saved his life. 

Snape ducked behind the wall around the castle. Harold saw a bird of some sort trying to fly away, and Voldemort's eyes and wand following it with unerring accuracy. _He's an Animagus?_ Thomas pressed his wand into his fingers. "So long as we're stuck in the thick of it, we might as well try to help," Thomas murmured, his soft Irish accent thickening now that he was afraid. 

Above the sizzle and whine of the spells came a loud, blood-curdling shriek. A large white form swooped down towards Voldemort. A Banshee? No, it was a bird that flew right in Voldemort's face, blinding him and allowing Snape to escape--a large white falcon. Was it another Animagus? Snape by this point was well hidden in the trees, so whoever the white falcon was, it had succeeded as she flew off before Voldemort could attack her, his attention firmly divided. Voldemort chose to ignore the bird and then shouted again for Harry Potter, audible even above the sounds of battle.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Her heart slowed as she flew again over the battle, hardly able to believe what she had just done. And she had come out alive, for a miracle. She hadn't been thinking, just reacting on pure instinct. _Nobody_ would cause harm to her human if she had any say in the matter. 

She kept circling, looking frantically for any chance to lend aid. Just below, she heard a shout of a Disarming Spell and a Summoning Charm, the crisp, aristocratic tones unmistakable. Draco Malfoy had a smile on his face as his father's wand slid neatly into his hand. 

Was he finally confronting him? She knew what troubled Draco's soul--more than once the young professor had talked to her on a lonely night as Severus used to. He was convinced that no human wanted to listen to him with what he was. He'd become almost shy in the past few years, very withdrawn. He'd vaguely explained it as knowing he'd done a great wrong in his past but not knowing what it was. "And the not knowing is the worst…" She had begun to think that Severus and Hermione's rescue with the Forgetfulness Potion was as much curse as gift. Draco could never confront what he'd done and learn to forgive himself for it, and without that, he hadn't any hope of forming any sort of attachment with others. And the demon of it, the black, terrible void of not knowing, had steadily eaten at him. 

And so the young, almost fatalistic Malfoy was smiling a cold smile that almost replicated the one often on his father's face. Frozen to the spot, she watched. Wordlessly Draco gestured away from the fray, to a quiet part of the courtyard. So this _was_ to be it. He was out to kill the man he had once admired and thought to emulate. And from the look on his face, he didn't care if he survived it, so long as he took Lucius down with him. He had told her he didn't expect to be the victor in their inevitable duel. But he'd do his damnedest, he had said calmly, and inflict a world of hurt before he lost. The fatalism of it had almost frightened her. 

Lucius smiled that same cold smile as Draco wordlessly tossed his wand back. "You always were a fool, Draco. Do you think you can best me in a duel?" 

"We'll find out, won't we?" he said almost lightly. "Besides, I know you wouldn't stand for anyone else to be the one to try to kill me. You'd have sent assassins years ago otherwise. You've been waiting for this just as I have." 

"You're not of their sort, Draco," Lucius cajoled in a silky tone. "You never were, and they know it. The _good_ Professor Malfoy, kindhearted keeper of magical beasts? Does her face ever haunt you at night, hmm?" 

"Whose?" He looked dumbstruck, obviously confused, but the slight tremor in him betrayed his fear that Lucius was referring to the night he would never fully recall except the in semi-lucid visions of nightmares. 

"Don't play coy, Draco. That girl you raped." Draco flinched as if he'd just been physically struck and inadvertently took a step back, shaking his head, suddenly gone pale as Voldemort himself. "Do they know about that?" Lucius continued almost conversationally. "Oh dear. Have I brought back a bad memory?" 

She stared in shock herself, seeing him look now little more than the uncertain, very young man that he was. He looked away for a second, blinking and shaking his head as if to clear his mind of it. Lucius raised his wand, and she recalled a lesson Severus had repeated more than once to new students, a code for survival in Slytherin._Never take your eyes off of a Slytherin. Not even for an instant; one from the Serpent's Den needs only that moment where you lose concentration._ She shouted out to him, knowing he'd hear no more than a falcon's cry, praying it was enough. She tensed, spread her wings, ready to dive on Lucius if need be. 

He came out of his stupor, thankfully, at her warning shout, even though he'd have heard it as nothing more than a falcon cry. He had just enough time to shout "_Avada Kedavra!_" himself as the bolt of green light sizzled towards him. No time to dodge it: all the time he had possessed to do so had been given over to casting his own spell. The curse hit him, and Tosca watched, horror-stricken. Just as his curse hit Lucius, Draco collapsed, limp as a rag doll. 

Worried for him, there was still no time to dive in to check; there was poor little need to anyhow. Nobody survived the Killing Curse. Allowing only a moment's grief, she hurried away: there would be time to grieve later. If they won, that was. She was wishing for once in her life that she was a bloody human and could lend aid with a wand. She felt so utterly helpless just circling and watching, waiting for any small chance to cause distraction to Death Eaters and allowing the forces of Hogwarts to move in for the kill. 

On the way, she saw Severus had returned to the battle, fighting by Hermione's side. He threw a Killing Curse at a Death Eater, who crumpled to the ground. She thought rather wryly, _Well, that one didn't fail._ The battle looked to be turning in their favor, but all the Death Eaters killed or captured would mean nothing if Voldemort survived to rise again. It all rested on Harry Potter's slender shoulders as he now approached Voldemort with the eerie serenity of a sacrifice to the ancient pagan gods. 

The two of them were still staring at each other as Harry approached, eyes locked and seeming as if everything else had faded from their consciousness. Voldemort saw him coming. When Harry was ten feet away, the Dark Lord shouted a spell in a harsh, guttural tongue. A dazzle of orange light surrounded the two for a minute, its brightness blinding Tosca for a moment. The beams twisted, converged, reached from the ground to form a dome around them. Hovering right above the shield-dome, she could make out what was being said within, voices and words distorted slightly as if with a jokester wizard's favorite: the Morphidicta Charm. The shield radiated heat, as if she was standing over a steaming cauldron. "I've waited years for this moment, saved all my strength and energy for this. My greatest victory--for the Boy Who Lived to be no more, and finally no obstacle left in my path. Just you and I, Harry Potter; no interference." 

A cold prickle worked its way down her body at the odd, disgustingly perverted chivalry of it. Then again, Voldemort always observed the niceties, like some sadistic, deluded aristocrat from yesteryear, the sort who'd insist on Irish linen napkins and fine vintage wine as he served his victims' heads for dinner. She'd seen enough of his peculiar mentality in her spying days. But Harry simply nodded. He gestured almost impatiently to the wand in Voldemort's hand. "Don't you recall what happened last time, old man?" The wands had canceled each other out, so Severus had told her when recalling the horrific events Harry Potter had revealed about the night of the Tri-Wizard Cup's culmination and Voldemort's return. That seemed to belong to another lifetime now. 

"Fool. Do you think I wouldn't have a new wand by now?" Voldemort returned equally coldly. "I learnt my lesson, but it seems you have not. It may have been delayed twenty-one years, but tonight you _will_ die." 

"So you're going to talk me to death?" She was almost unnerved by the nonchalant wisecracks Harry was spouting. But then, he _was_ a Gryffindor. Could he do this? He'd killed a wizard before--Liam Haverforth. But Haverforth was a pathetic worm to Voldemort's deadly cobra. The longer Voldemort spoke, the more unnerved Harry got. After the taste of Voldemort's malevolence that night seven years ago, he was obviously afraid, though bravely trying to conceal it. 

Voldemort laughed his cold, high pitched laugh. "I can do a great deal more than that. You still recall how to duel, I presume," he said softly. "Perhaps you've acquired a bit more skill than the last time." Vaguely Tosca wished Harry had spent a good deal more time on dueling than on Quidditch practice. 

She could only watch in helpless frustration as they formally bowed, neither pair of eyes lowering, red and green locked on each other. Strangely, the shield glowed a little less bright, gave off a little less burning heat. The shouted spells overlapped and she couldn't hear what had been cast. But the flash of green light proclaimed that Harry had shouted the Killing Curse. She darted her eyes towards the spell heading for him, but before she could distinguish it, Voldemort's spell had hit Harry. 

Her heart must have literally skipped a beat as he dropped to the ground. But there was never a sound that brought more relief, perverse as it sounded, than to hear his choked shout of pain. _Cruciatus, not the Killing Curse!_ After all this time, Voldemort still believed Harry an unworthy opponent to take seriously enough to kill straightaway. Wanting the sadistic pleasure of torture first, seeing his victims beg and scream for mercy, unwilling to administer that _coup de grace_ until his anger and bloodlust had been slaked. Peculiarly, Harry wasn't seemingly in as much agony as a typical Cruciatus sufferer. God knew she'd seen enough of them. 

The strangest thing happened. The shield vanished, the burning warmth suddenly gone. She could see the two of them clearly again instead of through the orange haze. Harry stopped moaning on the ground. His spell hit Voldemort just then, exploding with a dazzling, emerald green light. Harry let out another keening, animal cry of pain and clapped a hand to the scar on his forehead. 

An eternal heartbeat and Voldemort unthinkably fell and did not stir. 

A long moment Harry lay there, panting. Then he slowly sat up and then carefully got up, limping towards the still, crumpled form, wand at the ready in case Voldemort had some sort of trick up his sleeve. 

But Voldemort had dropped his wand, and as Tosca dove in and landed a few feet away, she saw in shock that on the ground there was nothing but charred cinders and ash where it should have lain. It was as though it had just destroyed itself. 

She glanced up at Harry, seeing the look of strain and fear on his boyish features. He reached out with his wand, ever so carefully, as if prodding a snake. He flipped the large brown hood away from Voldemort's face, trembling all over in shock and delayed fear. He let out a loud gasp. She hurried over to see, eschewing her clumsy feet to simply take off and glide the few feet to Harry's side. 

She was equally shocked. It wasn't the white snake's face and burning red eyes that she'd stared at so many long evenings with Severus by her side, that had haunted her dreams so many nights. 

Within that hood lay the simple face of a man of about seventy-five: wrinkled and spotted with age, sparse hair gone grey, green eyes glazed over and staring unseeing up at the starlit sky. Dead. Tom Riddle now looked like somebody's kindly grandfather, not the greatest scourge magic had ever known since Lucifer himself. No signs of the perversions, the evil, the hideous transformations, showed now on his face. Ironic that a man who'd brought pain and fear to so many now looked almost at peace. 

She slowly unfolded her wings and took flight, leaving Harry to his thoughts and returning towards the now dying battle. Her heart was in such a muddle that she barely knew what to feel. Maybe it was grief so many others dead at Voldemort's hand. Perhaps even grief for Riddle's life, such talent and brilliance so utterly wasted. Relief in having the matter finally finished; relief Harry being the one left standing. 

She thought of what might have happened. Severus, of all people, had told her one night when muttering over his potions lectures, running ideas by her. As a Potions Master's familiar, she had a fair degree of knowledge and enjoyed his subject. There existed a potion to give a slight boost to magical energy, useful when it was depleted by lack of sleep or the sort. Developed, naturally enough, during a long-ago and almost forgotten magical war. Severus had informed her that drinking more than one was not advisable. "Too much of this potion," he had said, sitting back in his armchair and obviously enjoying lecturing about his favored subject to an audience, even if it consisted of only a gyrfalcon, "is rather like too much of any good thing, Tosca. If you eat too many mice, you'll make yourself sick, for example. You can only handle so much of anything. If you seek to increase your power too much, you'll produce a handful of incredibly powerful spells, a mere handful. Then, it may happen that it will completely destroy any capacity that you have for magic. Too much magical current can do that, it's rather like Muggle electricity, you see?" 

Had there been signs that she had missed, that they had all missed in their utter fear? However Voldemort had acquired the power to destroy the wards, he had wanted it so badly that he had forged on, heedless of caution or warning. Had he gambled that his magic wouldn't be affected, or that by the time it destroyed his magic, Hogwarts would be his? He'd finally gambled all and lost. It was bitter but somewhat fitting irony. In seeking to become the most powerful wizard the world had ever seen, he had died as the very thing he had loathed most: a mere Muggle.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
The Death Eaters must have known. Severus knew too. A stabbing pain in his left arm made him gasp aloud, stumbling back for a moment behind the line of fire. He rolled up his sleeve, stupefied to see the skin of his forearm unblemished. Twenty years of staring at the Dark Mark, and it was gone as though it had never been. Voldemort was dead. 

He looked over towards where Harry and Voldemort had been battling and received a second shock. Both of them lay on the ground. A nearby crackling sizzle of a spell striking home and suddenly Sirius Black collapsed at his feet, dead eyes staring at the sky. 

Before he could curse himself with his stupidity in being distracted, his eye caught the green flash coming towards him. His muscles, numb and weary from the magical and physical expenditures of battle, refused to respond any faster than sluggishly, and he dimly realized, _So here I die._ No time for regret, no time for anything except perhaps a brief realization of pain, and then nothingness. 

Suddenly, a large white form dove in front of him. The spell hit it, the explosion and concussive sound of the spell finding its target following right on the heels of the shout of _Severus!_ finally reaching his ears. He could only look down in stunned horror as Tosca crumpled at his feet, suddenly so small and still. Hoping against hope, he crouched down as another spell whizzed by his shoulder, barely noticing or caring. 

Tears welled unexpectedly in his eyes, though he could feel no shame over them as he carefully checked her. Any small spark of hope was extinguished: she was dead. She'd spent her entire life with him trying to save him from what she jokingly referred to as "the dead to life". She'd helped him find Hermione and thus his heart. And now, in this last act, she finally had saved him from the dead, at the cost of her own life. 

He could only think of how he had come to know her and enjoy her company in the years since his managing Animagism. She'd become much more than the messenger bird he'd seen her as for years. Confidante, nagging nursemaid, fellow spy…friend. One of the few he could ever claim, and the truest of them all. A bit of Muggle Scripture came to his mind dimly as he crouched there. _ Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends._ No man, perhaps, but no falcon either. 

Suddenly the shout of "They're retreating!" came to his ears through the haze of grief and memory. He glanced up, dimly noticing that the mere ten or so Death Eaters remaining had broken ranks and run like hell for the edge of the Forbidden Forest, mere yards away. Trying to clear his mind, he looked over his should to see Minerva standing there. "Should we pursue?" he asked. 

Minerva debated for a moment. "It's too dangerous and we have our own to tend to," she said quietly. "The Minotaur is probably out by now--with luck they'll probably run into him before they reach the clearing to Apparate. That, or the Acromantulas or the Erithaci." The Congo Dervishes, whirling beasts that spun around prey with maddening speed, plucking little bits of flesh, leaving nothing in the end but a cleaned skeleton to mark their passing. 

Indeed, there was plenty of danger to take care of the last few Death Eaters in the forest--one reason he was grateful that his falcon wings allowed him to fly over it! The thought brought another dull pang of grief. "Besides, without Tom," Minerva murmured, unconsciously using the Dark Lord's real name, "they're nothing. Let the Ministry hunt them down if they wish." 

He turned towards Hermione. Nothing had ever seemed so beautiful as the smile she gave him at that moment, even on a face streaked with dirt and sweat. Slowly, very slowly, he smiled back. Tosca would have wanted it that way.   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Victory came with its price, and it sat heavily on the shoulders of those who survived. John Watson, Poppy Pomfrey, and some of their advanced Mediwizardry students tended carefully to the wounded. And the grim work of identifying and listing the dead was also going on. The courtyard of Hogwarts was a charnel house--Death Eater and Hogwarts defender all over, barely distinguishable in death until a Hogwarts crest could be spotted on some sets of black robes. 

Sirius Black. Callisto Mycenae. Rubeus Hagrid. Olympe Maxime. Several of the older students, which they all grieved particularly over. Draco Malfoy. Hermione saw him lying there, having died in killing the only person he had ever truly hated: his father. Hermione blinked back a few tears of grief, wondering if she and Severus had done the right thing in erasing his memory of that terrible night. Draco had never been able to face what he had done and conquer the demon of it--he had changed afterwards. He had become quiet, almost shy. There could be no answer now, but she prayed to God Draco finally found the peace he deserved. 

And Tosca. The loss that hit her the most, remembering the small things. Tosca Leading her to the Animagism notes, teaching her to fly, slowly but gently nudging herself and Severus together. So much to be grateful for to her friend, and now a debt that could never be repaid: the price of her husband's life. Dully she thought, _Crookshanks will be devastated._

Young Harold Lowe now stood before her, dark eyes very wide and somber. She noticed he was trembling slightly from the entire experience. "I'm sorry," he whispered faintly. "We didn't mean to cause trouble, any of us…" He looked barely even his mere eleven years at that moment. 

"Mister Lowe," she said wearily, "if you mean to beg me to not take points from Gryffindor, I think I'm going to put a _Silencio_ on you." 

"No ma'am," he said hastily. "I…who was that bird? That saved Professor Snape?" 

"His familiar," she said softly. "And his friend." She had been friend to him when almost no other would. 

"Oh, I see…" 

"You fought well," she said wearily. And indeed the four hostage first years had, doing what they could with a simple _Exepelliarmus_ and a few other minor spells. Though if she could have spared a minute from the fight, they'd had most definitely been put in the castle with a Repelling Spell on them to be safe. 

She looked now towards where Tosca had fallen, seeing Severus standing there looking at her, her own heart still aching. She left Lowe standing there and strode over to him, hardly hearing the murmur of people around her. Did Severus realize that she had truly lived up to the name of Tosca--dying as a result of trying to save the man she cared for more than any other?   


~~~~~~~~~~

  
Morning rose over the battlefield at Hogwarts on the second of May as calmly and serenely as though nothing untoward had happened the night before. Only the bodies told the tale: the grim work of burial would last awhile. The Ministry had already ordered that the Death Eaters' corpses be handed over to them for "disposal". What that entailed was not questioned, or ever imagined, but there was relief that they wouldn't have to deal with that task themselves. 

Fifteen funerals to hold in the fine spring days ahead. The safety of Hogwarts, and indeed the entire wizarding world, bought by the sacrifice of fifteen souls. Sixteen, if one counted Tosca, which the magical world at large would never do. For all her fine qualities, to them it came down to the fact that she was a falcon, a familiar, a mere animal. Any honor to her courage and sacrifice would have to be Severus and Hermione's own. 

Harry Potter still seemed in a daze over the whole ordeal, and the very idea that Voldemort, in his lust for power, had caused his own downfall seemed still fairly incredible. The most fearsome figure of the last quarter century was dead by his misjudgment. 


	21. Chapter TwentyOne

Matilda Buxleigh had to hide a smile and a laugh as Doctor Anaxamander Konstantidines was wheeled by her desk at St. Mungo's on a gurney, suffering from frostbite in a delicate area. "Damn!" he moaned, convulsing in pain. "Who would have thought that a quick shag against the dungeon wall would end like _this_?!" Apparently, according to his file, the distinguished cardiologist had fallen rather willingly into the clutches of a rather bewitching young woman half his age. 

Unfortunately, he was not aware of the fact that his lovely, silvery-blond playmate was a Siberskaya, a Russian Ice Maid. No mortal man could mate with a Siberskaya without paying a steep price for his pleasure. Nurse Buxleigh's lips finally twitched up in a smile. _Well, let's see him pinching rumps and harassing the girls in Cardiology now._ She'd have a fine tale for the staff room when her dinner break finally came. 

She swiveled in her chair to check the time, hungrily anticipating the meal awaiting her. It was a raw February day and most wizarding folk had been wise enough to stay in their houses in the falling snow, so it had been particularly slow. It was still half an hour to go before her dinner. She heard the _pop_ of someone Apparating in and turned to greet them. They couldn't be too badly injured if they'd managed to get here under their own power. 

A tall man almost raced towards her, hurriedly brushing snow off a dark green cloak. "Hermione Snape?" he gasped, dark eyes darting wildly around, his voice deep and with beautiful diction. 

She blinked. One of the heroes of the war against Voldemort stood before her. She fumbled for the file. "_Accio!_" she finally snapped, and the file flew into her hand from across the nurse's station. "_Navigus Hermione Snape!_" The numbers flashed in the air before a worried-looking Severus Snape. 

He took the barest glance to note that his wife was in room 418, before he was off racing down the hall, practically stumbling in his haste, cloak billowing behind him. She grinned to herself. A man who had faced death countless times as a spy, stared down Death Eaters in the battle for Hogwarts ten months earlier with barely a twitch of nerves, was a gibbering mess at the miracle of life. _Typical man._

~~~~~~~~~~

  
He could barely believe that it was happening. Who on Earth would have imagined two years ago that Severus Snape, snarling and cold Professor Severus Snape, would be pacing a hospital waiting room with frayed nerves, worrying beyond belief for his _wife_? Two years ago they'd have laughed at the idea of a woman touching him, let alone bearing his child. Their child. He bit his lip, placing his hands on the windowsill and staring out over the calm Welsh countryside, the snow falling in silence outside. 

He was helpless as a newborn himself. Much as he had sworn to protect her, with his own life if need be, he could do nothing here. It was a woman's struggle, one he had no place in. One thing that scared him out of his wits was helplessness--a vestige left yet of those long, lonesome years where all he had to cling to was his usefulness. _If anything should happen to her…_

He barely saw the outside world, looking now through his mind's eye, remembering his mother and father. As a boy he had been ashamed of them, their very _difference_, the things that marked _him_ as different. First their Russian blood, disdained by the English they'd taken refuge among, and then their Muggleness, loathsome to so many in Slytherin house. He hadn't seen through his bitterness and anger that they'd given up everything known and familiar, to go to a strange and sometimes hostile land, for _him_. To save his life. 

And now there would be no chance to plead for forgiveness, to take back his coldness towards them on summer holidays home from school, to wipe away the memory of bewildered hurt in their eyes. They had been simple, hardworking people, but they had loved him. He still remembered those simple letters from home that he had opened away from the other Slytherins, not wanting to explain the Cyrillic or the cheap Muggle paper. _Sasha, chto tui ucheshsya v shkole?_ And he too certain they couldn't understand anything of what he was learning or really care, writing back vague replies. 

Now here he was about to become a father himself, and the very thought frightened him more than death itself ever could. The thought of the years to come, the tests and trials of parenthood…God allow that he'd handle it. He had learned to love, at least; become a better man from loving Hermione. Maybe there was hope that he could grow yet, and love this child as well as he did his wife. 

So as he stood there and pondered past sins and future worries, he was barely aware of someone calling his name. "Mister Snape? Your wife wants to see you." 

He turned, looking at the young mediwitch who stood there in her white lab robes. "She wants me?" The mediwitch nodded and gestured for him to follow. Like a meek, obedient little puppy, he walked at her heels down the spotless corridors, ignoring the pictures staring at him as he passed. 

She left him at the door, and he knocked tentatively. "_Come in!_" came the response in an abnormally high tone. He pushed open the door and stepped inside. She lay there so quietly, massaging the swollen mound of her belly. She gave him a weary smile as he approached the bed. She gestured for him to sit. "Whew. That was a strong one there!" 

He looked at abominable green of the hospital gown she wore and looked at her face, seeing the reddening and the lines of pain there, the tendrils of wavy hair gone lank with sweat. She had never looked so strained and worn, but he felt a fierce surge of love and pride within him: to him at that moment, she had never been lovelier. "Have they given you anything?" he asked quietly. 

"No Asclepio," she laughed tiredly. "You know the coltsfoot in that would hurt the baby. No, just a simple Soothing Solution is all I get." He gave her a sympathetic smile. That potion of clover, willowbark, and mermaid scale wasn't much help for anything beyond minor aches and pains. It would just enough to take a little edge off the pain she was feeling. 

She reached for his hand, slipping hers in his gently. A few seconds later she was wringing his hand with such strength that he almost yelped in pain himself, certain something was broken. A low, almost animal whimper of pain passed her lips. Once the contraction subsided, she glowered at her belly. "Hurry up, why don't you!" 

He was frightened and awed all at once. Here was something so amazing, so primal and wonderful and terrible…the giving of a life. He had taken his share of life in his forty-three years, and saved a few, but never had he helped to give one. _However small my part in it was,_ he thought ruefully. He winced now to think that he had helped to cause her pain, when he had sworn to himself that he'd as soon turn his wand on himself before he'd allow that to happen. 

So it was with a mixture of terror, regret, and anticipation that he sat at his wife's bedside, able to do little but cluck vague reassurances and wait as the nerve-wracking minutes passed. Useless, bloody useless. Her brown eyes met his, blazing with the fury of an ancient, vengeful goddess. "I swear, Severus, if you ever touch me again, roast falcon Animagus will be on the next menu at Hogwarts!" 

"Er…of course, dear," he said lamely, awkwardly patting her hand, surreptitiously moving her wand out of reach, and turning slightly to put rather delicate areas out of the range of her fists. No sense trying to be rational at the moment. "Shall I…um…leave then?" She might not want to see the one responsible for her being in this state. 

"No!" She blinked and looked at him. "Don't you dare leave me!" He was surprised at the vehemence in her tone. She relaxed slightly and gave him a tired smile. "You were there for the beginning of it, weren't you?" she said teasingly. "You might as well be here for the end…" 

Indeed, and he remembered the night very well. The night after he had stood by her side as they had finally been formally declared husband and wife. And she had proudly, lovingly said the words binding them for life, despite the murmurs of shock rippling through some of the crowd. A day papers had crowded to report from: the recognition of the heroes of Hogwarts by Minister of Magic Gwalch, and the marriage of a most unlikely pair in their ranks. And so he had stood there with an Order of Merlin, First Class pinned to his dress robes and caring nothing for it. All he wanted was standing right beside him with all the love in her heart shining brightly in her eyes. It had been the finest day of his life, and the finest night. 

But he had never forgotten that night in the Malfoy dungeons, the night he still considered to be the one that had truly joined them. A year ago now the impossible had happened: she had taken him as her husband. Four years ago had been the start of it--that prank Valentine from Draco, that first twinge of empathy in his supposedly stone heart over Hermione Granger. And now another miracle seemed set to happen on the feast of Saint Valentine. A holiday he had spent years hating with all his soul seemed to be now the bringer of change and fortune. 

So here he sat, holding her hand in this cycle that would end only in birth or death. "Godparents," Hermione said wearily, lying back against the pillows. "Who'll be the godparents?" 

"I'm not certain," he admitted sheepishly, looking around at the disgustingly cheerful yellow walls. He knew very little about the entire business. He didn't even know what sex the child was--they had purposely told the mediwizard that had informed them of the glad tidings not to reveal it. "We'll figure it out," he said with what he hoped was assurance, though he was aware of the faintness of his voice. 

The new Snape was in no hurry to be born--probably took after him in having an almost infuriating amount of patience. But then, the inhabitants of the Serpent's Den always did learn to bide their time. He smiled slightly, aware that any child of theirs would have bets on which house they'd be Sorted into long before they reached the age of eleven. The match still shocked some people, and this baby would be under a good deal of scrutiny as it grew. _Here's hoping for a Ravenclaw_, he thought. He wasn't sure he'd be able to handle fathering a Hufflepuff. 

Ten minutes or an hour he sat there as contraction after contraction wracked her body. Just then, Elena Karabonova, the Obstetrics Mediwitch, stepped in, giving them a reassuring smile. "How goes it, Mrs. Snape?" she asked. 

"Fan-bloody-tastic," Hermione muttered, giving her a grin of bared teeth. "I think it's…about time…" 

Things started in a rush from there. He stood by the bedside holding Hermione's hand as she pushed, whimpering quietly to herself. She clung to his hand as if it was her only lifeline, and he murmured quiet words of reassurance, barely aware of half the things he was saying, and not caring who heard. Why on Earth hadn't they invented a bloody spell to quicken this, to just _draw_ the baby out? 

He must have asked it aloud because Dr. Karabonova answered brusquely, "Because it's better left to its natural course, Mister Snape. Any spells on a creature that fragile and helpless might well do it lasting damage. Ah, there you are, I see the head! A few pushes more will do it now!" 

Her eyes met his and held as she pushed, struggling against her own body to bring this child into the world. "That's the way, soon enough you'll be holding your child," Karabonova encouraged. 

She closed her eyes, gathered herself together for another push, bore down until she was gasping with the effort, and Karabonova crowed in delight. "There you have it!" In a rush the cord was tied off and an angry wail pierced the air as the youngest Snape announced its presence. "A fine, healthy baby boy!" 

The little blanket-wrapped bundle was handed to him as Karabonova stepped over to examine Hermione. He stood there dumbfounded, concerned only for her until he heard the little whimpers and snuffles of the slight weight in his hands. He looked down at the little wizened red face, amazed. His son. _I have a son!_ He vaguely heard a few murmured charms and spells to help Hermione now that it was safe to use magic on her. 

"I'll send Kai to tell your parents," he told Hermione. The red-tailed hawk had been whining about being cooped up this past week--he'd relish the long flight to the Grangers' with the good news of their grandson. 

And so he looked into those innocent newborn eyes with wonder. This tiny scrap of humanity was forever a part of him. He knew how to hurt all too well, but how to _keep_ his wife and son from harm... _You'll be a better man than me. I'll be the husband and father it takes to see to that._ He stroked the baby's soft, plump little cheek with a finger. A fierce wave of love came over him as he beheld his little family, absurdly close to tears at the feeling of sheer contentment such as he had never known. 

"Does this little lad have a name?" the doctor asked, smiling at them as he moved to sit beside Hermione. 

They had discussed names often in the months since they had learned of the pregnancy, and it seemed only fitting for the baby to bear some name in tribute. Some might disdain naming a child for a mere familiar, but they hadn't known her as the two of them had as Animagi. She had been friend, counselor, fellow spy, matchmaker, and in the end, she had willingly given her life for his. More than could be said for many humans--without her, this child wouldn't even exist. She had been named for Floria Tosca, so the name hadn't been too hard to decide. He smiled a little as he remembered Tosca hoping that a child of his and Hermione's might be a falcon Animagus. _We'll see, Tosca._

"His name," Hermione said with a faint smile, reaching up to take the child from his arms, "is Alexander Florian."

**The End**


	22. Author's Notes and Disclaimers

**Disclaimers:** JKR owns the usual suspects. 

The late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has claim to Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Irene Adler, Moriarty, and Mrs. Hudson. 

Ms. Anne Perry owns William Monk, Hester Latterly, Oliver Rathbone, and John Evan. If you haven't read her Monk mystery series, go and do it now. It begins with "The Face of a Stranger" and is up to "Funeral in Blue" as of October, 2001. 

Harold Lowe, Herbert Lightoller, Joseph Boxhall, and Thomas Andrews were owned by themselves. They were, respectively, the Fifth, Second, and Fourth Officers and the Chief Architect of the _RMS Titanic_, and fine men indeed. Hopefully they, and their wives, will forgive me for giving them cameos in some small tribute! 

The character of Floria Tosca, from whence Tosca the gyrfalcon comes from, is the property of the late composer Puccini. 

**A/N:** As usual, profound gratitude to my beta and friend, Karen (Eve's owner), who's gamely agreed to go a second round of this fic with me. Go read her excellent fic "The Shepherd" at this address.   
http://www.fanfiction.net/read.php?storyid=608227 

As to Chapter One, I don't intend for this to be a Potter/Holmes crossover fic. That was somewhat to set things up and bring us somewhat to the present--as you see from Chapter Two, I'm resuming the SS/HG storyline. However, I have not ruled out the possibility of writing either the Holmes/Adler romance in crossover or writing Hermione's year at Baker Street at a later time. To judge from feedback in reviews and e-mail, it looks like some of you are interested in those too. We'll see, but let's finish "On the Wing" first and get Severus and Hermione together, eh? 

My thanks to the gals at the Snapefic Liberation Front for their reviews and encouragement! We'd be glad to have you, so if you'd like to join our merry band, check us out at   
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Snapefic_LibFront/ 

That's all for now…these A/N's and Disclaimers will be updated as the story progresses. Sit back and hopefully enjoy the ride, and it's great to see you're enjoying the tale already! 


	23. A Few Parting Words

Wow, it's been an amazing time! Fifteen months, an award, and a hundred ten thousand words later, I can honestly say it's been a wonderful time writing the 'Falcon' duo of fanfiction; it's all become far, far beyond anything I imagined when I first wrote Chapter One of "Taking Flight" as a challenge ficlet. To every single one of you who read and reviewed, my profound thanks. 

I want to give special thanks to everyone who kept encouraging me to write this past year when times were bad and my Muse seemingly far away; your eagerness to see more of my humble story is what kept me going, so I owe a good deal of "On the Wing" to you fans. 

I need again to single out my beta reader, Karen Shepherd, for being a great writer, a wonderful editor/beta, and an awesome friend. Her first Harry Potter fic, which I've beta'd is wonderful and now just about completed! Please, take some time to go read a very good piece of Snape/OC fic: her pen name here at ff.net is "Potions Student". Its sequel will be forthcoming, and I greatly look forward to it. 

Some of you have asked if I'll write a sequel to "Falcon". The straightforward answer to that is that I've got no plans to write a straight SS/HG fic sequel; I'm content to leave them with their hard-earned happiness and not subject them to further drama. However, I do have plans for another Hogwarts pair to have their own story, and Severus, Hermione, and little Alexander Florian will most definitely make appearances and possibly play some important roles. I hope to have some of that written this year still! 

In the meanwhile, though, I've begun my first actual original work of fiction, tentatively entitled "Where Lights in Darkness Lies". It's another fic regarding love and war, though this time historical rather than magical. I seem to have a penchant for characters not conventionally seen as heroes, so maybe it's not a surprise that I've got a story going about a young German naval officer and a British girl! If you want to try a different piece of fic that I wrote, it's posted at ff.net's original-fic sister site, fictionpress.net, under my pen name of HyacinthMacaw. I've just gotten up to the beginning of the war, where things really start to get interesting. 

I'm on holiday from posting fanfic as of this Saturday (5/10/03) until mid-August, as I'll be doing a marine research internship and will be without Internet access. However, rest assured, I'll work on both my original fic and hopefully start the aforementioned new HP fic during that time, as I _will_ have my computer. So I hope to have a good deal sent to Karen and then posted by the end of August. Hope you'll find it worth the wait! 

Again, many, many thanks to all of you!


End file.
